


Orphan Black Bits and Sundry

by greywing (ctrlx)



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 04:53:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 50
Words: 65,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7604209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ctrlx/pseuds/greywing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Small works posted to tumblr over the years, imported here for archival purposes. </p>
<p>Includes: additional Not-Drabbles, prompt fills, one-shot AUs, that time I tried to incorporate <i>Fringe</i> alongside <i>Orphan Black</i>, a ghost love triangle, a clone named Jane Bennet (yes, after that Jane Bennet), a short series exploring the unique upbringing of Charlotte Bowles ("The Bowles Identity"), etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In celebration of the SCOTUS decision on Prop 8/DOMA (Cophine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> June 26, 2013

“Why do you have to go back to Leekie?” Cosima griped.

“There are many reasons, but the most pressing is . . .” Delphine trailed off. She looked faintly embarrassed.

“Yeah?” Cosima prompted, leaning in close.

“My visa.”

“Your. Oh. That’s it? Well, we could just get married in Minnesota, or my home state once the stay is lifted now that Prop 8 is dead. Again. And if the DOMA thing pans out, I’ll just sponsor you as my wife.”

Delphine stared at her. “Did you just . . . propose to me?”

“. . . Hypothetically?” Cosima squinted behind her glasses. “I mean, if a visa is your problem and all . . .”

“Well, you know, in that case, we could just get married in France.”

“But I don’t have a French visa problem?” Cosima faltered, head tilting at an angle.

“I meant in the case of you proposing to me,” Delphine clarified with a conspiratorial little lean.

“Oh.” Cosima blushed. “Well, I didn’t mean—” She cut herself off before she could babble her foot into her mouth and glared at Delphine, whose expression was breaking into a slow, radiant smile. “That was pretty cheeky.”

“Yes?” Delphine made no effort to hide her triumph. “Perhaps you are—how do you say—rubbing off on me.”

Cosima frowned, but almost as quickly grinned. “Let’s find out what else has been rubbing off on you, hm?”

“Is this a scientific inquiry?” Delphine murmured, eyes on Cosima’s lips as the brunette pressed in close.

“Oh yeah,” Cosima whispered. “We’re gonna make some totally crazy science.”


	2. Smart, Pretty Things (Rachel, Delphine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-S1 speculation.
> 
> July 1, 2013

“Aldous let you go quite easily. A smart, pretty thing like you.”

Delphine’s expression set into rigid planes of stone but was far from expressionless. A good effort, Rachel supposed, but the white hot anger tainted with a dash of shame shone bright and clear in those—really rather lovely—hazel eyes.

“Do you think he enjoys it?” Rachel asked in a disaffected monotone. She ran a finger along a pristine lab station countertop and dropped her gaze to trace its invisible path. Her eyes cut back to Delphine. “Thinking about you being with her. Relishing that he and she share something now.”

Delphine’s breath came in shortening spurts. Every line in her body was taut, almost humming with tension.

To her credit she did not look away. Most of the grunt science staff found it unnerving or tremulously exciting to interact with Rachel. They didn't maintain eye contact, tended to stammer. This woman watched her unwavering, kept her silence.

Delphine Cormier really was quite beautiful.

Objectively speaking.

Rachel took a step toward Delphine, then another, into the other woman’s space. The scientist had nowhere to retreat, a lab station table at her back, Rachel advancing at her leisure, sidling so close that Rachel could see the pulse leap in Delphine’s throat and her pupils dilate.

Fight or flight.

“Sisters should also share.” Rachel stood directly before Delphine, in her heels of a height with the other woman. She stood up straight, impeccably postured, noting that it was Delphine leaning away just the slightest. The scientist braced herself with one hand on the table behind her.

Rachel considered touching Delphine. Her cheek. Her jaw. Cosima would do that.

“Don’t you think?” Rachel murmured lowly when Delphine offered no remark. “Doctor.”

Delphine’s eyes flitted back and forth between one of Rachel’s to the other, their proximity making it difficult for the trapped woman to look fully into Rachel’s gaze. The silence and the stillness grew heavy with anticipation, expectant. Rachel waited. Watched.

“I,” Delphine began, stopped, licked her lips. She tried again, in a voice soft with the texture of her accent, every word precisely enunciated. “I have a lot of work I must attend to, Ms. Duncan.”

Rachel let the silence stretch, elastic. She fixated, pointedly, on Delphine's lips. They parted slightly under her scrutiny. Rachel could almost hear the bark of warning trying to muster the courage to ring out.

Delphine drew a breath that foreshadowed forthcoming words, but Rachel simply said, "I’ll leave you to it,” and stepped back. She made for the door, paused at the threshold,  and glanced over her shoulder. Delphine hadn’t moved but stood tracking Rachel’s exit.

“Does Cosima know about you and Aldous?”

Delphine bit her bottom lip and, for a second, looked away. An obvious tell, that. Rachel smiled humorously.

“Of course she does, smart, pretty thing that she is. _Adieu_ , Dr. Cormier. Keep up the good work.”

The click-clack of her own heels striking the ground was Rachel’s only response.


	3. The Expendables (Cophine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> July 5, 2013

“You can’t run away from them, even if you want to, can you?”

Air rattled in and out of Cosima’s lungs. Delphine concentrated on that, on the gurgle and the slight wheeze she could detect this close to the source—was it growing worse? was it the same? was it possible to differentiate such minute changes day to day?—and not on the rumble of words echoing through Cosima’s chest cavity, distorted in one ear, husky with sleepiness in the other.

She wondered if she could feign sleep.

“They’d just come after you, find you. Like they’d do with any of us—the clones, I mean. Their subjects.”

There was a steady rise and fall to Cosima’s breaths. Delphine rode the crests and dips, slotted into Cosima’s side, head resting on Cosima’s chest. She couldn’t have said when the roles had reversed, when through the hours interminable and flying by, through the dark and pressing nights, Cosima had begun holding her and not the other way around.

Fingers played through her hair.

“Only . . . you’re not as unexpendable. In their eyes, I mean.”

Heat radiated off of Cosima. At the back of Delphine’s mind lurked fears of infections, fevers, the threats of bronchitis and pneumonia and chest colds. But they were, the both of them, generating an oven of warmth beneath the blankets. There was no accurately assessing her temperature in this environment.

The restless hand stilled on her shoulder and her human pillow shifted. 

“Delphine?”

Delphine sighed. With reluctance she lifted her head to look up into Cosima’s face. What moonlight managed to creep through the sheer shades lit the brunette’s pale features, eyes squinting in the darkness, struggling to see without the aid of corrective lenses or illumination.

Delphine lay her head back down. “Yes?”

“Are you listening to me?” the question rolled into Delphine’s ear.

“Yes.”

“Are you answering in monosyllables because you agree with me and don’t want to talk about it?”

“Yes.”

“Has all this already occurred to you?”

“. . . Yes.”

“So I’m right?”

“Probably. Most likely.”

Cosima sighed, a hollow blustery sound that caught at the back of her throat and—Delphine’s gut clenched—threatened to trigger a cough. Delphine’s fingers rubbed small circles on Cosima’s stomach, anticipating, but nothing followed.

“Would they kill?” Cosima asked quietly. “Like, kill people in their way. Or to, to silence them?”

Delphine knew she should have feigned sleep. “I don’t know. I can say I signed enough non-disclosure agreements that, legally, I would be in a lot of trouble if I spoke a word about any of this to anyone.”

“You’d be in hot water, huh?”

Delphine’s lips quirked. “Yes. In hot water.”

Cosima cautiously took a deep breath. Delphine could tell by how slowly she inhaled, testing the limits to which irritation would trigger in her lungs. She exhaled just as slowly, as Delphine imagined she would if she were smoking that pot she mentioned what felt like a lifetime ago. Which had been a lifetime ago, when she’d been Delphine Beraud and everything had looked so much simpler and straightforward.

“Did you think this through?” Cosima asked into the darkness.

Delphine closed her eyes and reached for elusive slumber.

“Delphine?”

“Perhaps not as well as I should have,” Delphine murmured.

Cosima held her breath. Delphine counted the seconds before the support beneath her head expanded again and gently bore her back down in a steady rhythm. 

“Do you regret it?”

Delphine opened her eyes and blinked into the darkness. Listened to the heartbeat underneath her ear. The air wheezing in, rattling out. Felt the warmth and the softness stretched beneath her, the hand on her shoulder, curiously still.

Delphine swallowed to wet her throat.

“No.”

The hand on her shoulder gripped tight. “Okay.”

Delphine buried her face against Cosima, wrapped her arm around more securely around Cosima’s middle, and clutched her close.

“Okay,” Cosima reiterated softly. “Me neither.”


	4. This is the Rest of Your Life (Delphine, Alison)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: This piece contains a major character death.**
> 
> August 28, 2013

“Thank you. Delphine. For helping me. Us.”

Just stepping out into the hospital parking lot Delphine pulled up short and turned around, adjusting the strap of her purse. She met the uncertain eyes of Alison Hendrix. “You’re welcome. It’s what she wanted.”

Alison took a deep breath, though she imagined as she did so that it rattled around in her lungs and would threaten, at any moment, to afflict her with the cough that could rob any of them, her and her genetic identicals, of their last breath. That had. For at least one of them.

“I’m very sorry about Cosima,” Alison offered hesitantly.

Delphine nodded slowly, guarded gaze frosting with sorrow. “Me too.”

“I didn’t—”

“Please, Alison,” Delphine stopped her softly, eyes closing briefly, hand gripping the strap of her purse tightly. “Please, don’t—you don’t have to.”

Alison touched her throat. “Perhaps, but I’d at least like to—I want to apologize if we made it at all . . . uncomfortable for you. For the both of you.”

Delphine’s eyes narrowed, clouded with confusion. A second later, to Alison’s surprise, the scientist’s expression cleared into the breaking of a smile. “No need to apologize. It wasn’t . . . an issue.”

A frisson of shock passed through Alison. “It wasn’t?”

Delphine’s smile widened and Alison got the impression the woman would have laughed but had checked herself. “You know how Cosima was. Once she decided she was right, it was almost impossible to convince her otherwise without proof. She never apologized for something she didn’t think was wrong.”

Alison pressed her lips together. “No, she didn’t. Then again, she was—good at being right.”

Delphine laughed, curt and twinkling, strung with notes of sadness and delight. “She was good at being wrong, too. She was stubborn, Cosima.” Delphine’s accent caressed the name, voice falling hushed. Her eyes retreated inward and Alison could discern, for a moment, depths of emotion. She’d never been quite sure, before, about the former monitor’s intentions, her dedication in the memory of a dead woman, or even if Delphine had ever been sincere, but she thought maybe she could see the answer there, now.

“I’m grateful she was stubborn about you.” Delphine blinked and refocused on her. Alison lowered her eyes, raised them again. “Helping us must be hard for you.”

Delphine coolly scrutinized Alison’s face. Alison tamped down the reflex to cover her mouth. It was easy to see in the beauty of Delphine’s features what Cosima must have found alluring—not that Alison’s tastes ran to that sort of assessment—but under that regard Alison felt the touch of a quicksilver intellect that echoed the sharp mind of her lost—sister. (Wasn’t that what Cosima had called them once, her and the others, in the grip of fever?)

“I have a promise to keep,” Delphine said. “I look at you and I see that promise. I do believe we can prevent the illness from manifesting in you and the others and I will try my best to work with your doctors to make that happen. You have the promise of my aid, Alison.”

Alison nodded and Delphine mirrored the gesture. With a little wave, the blonde turned to go, head bowed, when Alison blurted out, “Maybe she was the lucky one. That she got you, I mean. At least you both knew—what you were, where you stood. She got to choose you, knowing full well who you were and what you were about. But the rest of us—” Alison bit off her words as a tremor entered her voice. She sucked in her lips and covered her mouth.

Delphine froze. When she raised her head, it was with a sigh. Her eyes landed on Alison wearily. “Alison, you have your whole life ahead of you to choose how you want to live from this point forward, with no one left to interfere in your decisions. And I will work my hardest to see that you have the longest rest of your life as possible to make those decisions. Understand, things between Cosima and me could have turned out very differently. I hurt her, but she chose to forgive me and move on. Whenever you’re ready, you can make that same decision. It’s your life to live now.”

Alison’s lower lip trembled. “How will I know when I’m ready?”

Delphine smiled self-deprecatingly. “I’ll let you know when I find out myself.”


	5. ... and Taxes (Cophine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because back-before-dawn said a silly thing: "You could read Cosima and Delphine filing taxes and I wouldn’t find it boring. Seriously. But hey, it’s up to you to decide to write whatever you write." So I wrote a silly thing.
> 
> September 23, 2013

“Cosima, why don’t we just hire a, a—”

“Tax accountant?”

“Yes. That. A tax accountant.”

“Because we are two scientists, one with a doctorate and one getting her doctorate, and we are not afraid of reading and figuring out rules and getting this done ourselves.”

“Well, yes, I suppose, but . . . I would like to spend my time doing more productive things than figuring out—what does this say—tax deductibles.”

Cosima sighed. “I know, I know. It’s just that I may . . . be late in filing my taxes.”

Delphine bit the inside of her cheek. “Why does this not surprise me?”

Cosima grinned winningly. “Better late than never.”

“Mmm,” Delphine hummed noncommittally. “That will have to change, you know.”

“Says who?”

“Says the person you’re thinking about asking to be your wife.”

Cosima gaped at her.

Delphine smiled. “What is the phrase that my English teacher always used? The early bird gets the worm?”

Cosima’s jaw worked soundlessly.

Delphine reached out and gently lifted her jaw closed. “We’ll also be hiring a tax accountant. You may always be tardy, but you keep excellent records, so at least the accountant’s job will be easy—and we’ll do better things with our time. Okay?”

Cosima frowned at her thoughtfully. “Can we back up to the wife thing?”

Delphine laughed and leaned in for a kiss. “Here I thought you would be interested in the ‘better things’ we might do with our time.”

“I was getting to that,” Cosima whispered just before their lips met.


	6. Talk Bioethics To Me (Cophine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I always struggled trying to get a really good bioethics conversation going between Cosima and Delphine. This was an abandoned Not-Drabble that I couldn't quite fully get to work and so never made it into the "Rewind, Repair, Replay" collection.
> 
> October 8, 2013

Between Delphine’s smooth palms rolled a small glass bottle, its viscous contents indiscernibly mixing or somesuch. Cosima watched in idle observation. Delphine grasped the bottle by its handle top and tapped it against her palm, catching Cosima’s eyes as she did so. A thoughtful look passed over Delphine’s face. After a moment, she held a hand out to Cosima expectantly. 

“Nah.” Cosima waved her off. Delphine beckoned with a twitch of her fingers.

“It’s polish, not—” Delphine’s line of sight tracked down to Cosima’s right wrist. “—ink. It won’t last. It won’t even hurt.”

Cosima lifted a bare foot and wiggled her toes at Delphine. “You can paint my toes.”

Delphine’s nose scrunched distastefully. “Smelly.”

“Hey!” 

Delphine reached for Cosima's hand. The brunette pulled away petulantly. Delphine smothered a laugh that, unfortunately, still ruined the degree of pathetic she tried to project with a pair of pleading eyes. Going for a frown, cracking into a smile, Cosima held her hand out. Delphine took her fingers gently, squeezed briefly, and set about the task.

“You’ve never asked about my tattoo,” Cosima remarked to Delphine’s bent head.

“The nautilus shell? It seemed obvious: the golden ratio?”

Cosima grinned crookedly, mouth wrung helplessly by Delphine’s audacity. “Okay, yeah. But you’ve never asked me when I got it or why I got it or anything like that.” A sudden thought set Cosima’s head at an angle and sent an eyebrow arching. “Unless you already know all the answers?”

Delphine shook her head. “I don’t. I didn’t know you had a tattoo until I saw it.”

Cosima frowned. “And you’re not curious?” 

“You sound like you want me to be curious,” Delphine pointed out, concentrating on the strokes of the brush.

“No,” Cosima muttered. “It doesn’t matter.”

“No, no, go ahead, tell me,” Delphine said, straightening up and fanning Cosima’s nails with a flap of her hand.

“It’s too late now,” Cosima huffed. Delphine glanced at her face and in a second Cosima caught her effort to repress a laugh. “It’s not a crazy story anyway. Not like I got drunk and woke up with a tattoo.”

“Or a nose piercing?” Delphine added, eyeing the little hoop.

Cosima grinned. Her amusement faded into consideration. “For someone who seems to agree with a philosophy of self-directed human evolution, you don’t seem all that into body modification yourself.”

“Oh, I’ve had plenty of plastic surgery,” Delphine said casually, slipping her free hand once again beneath Cosima’s.

Cosima gaped at her. “What?”

The blonde smiled up at her. “Kidding.”

Cosima stared at her for another beat and then shook her head, chuckling a little.

“But what if I had?” Delphine asked, eyebrows lifting, though she directed her line of sight toward Cosima’s fingers. “Would it matter?”

“Plastic surgery?” Cosima considered it. For too long, because Delphine sent her a little knowing look through her lashes. “No. I guess not.”

“Really?” Delphine pressed. 

“I mean if you had gotten plastic surgery, it would explain your criminally good looks,” Cosima posited. Delphine stilled for a second. Cosima felt she earned her smug smile. "And don’t think I can’t see where you’re going.” 

"Where am I going?"

Cosima sighed and unthinkingly made to gesture with her captive hand. Delphine’s fingers clutched tight around hers until Cosima relaxed with an apologetic smile. “To entrap me. By pointing out that, ultimately, there’s really no difference between getting a tattoo or piercings and getting plastic surgery. I’d have to agree, but then clarify that it’s a matter of socialized perspectives and value judgments, that not all forms of tattooing and piercings and, yes, plastic surgery are regarded equally. Society—or rather, societies, since such views are culturally dependent, perceive some as more acceptable than others. Some aren’t accepted at all. Some are so normalized like, I don’t know, braces or Lasik, that we don’t even think of them as modifications. Am I right?”

Delphine, who though she never raised her eyes had slipped into an ever widening smile, nodded. “That was very good. But . . . you didn’t say whether all forms of body modification are, in fact, equal.”

Cosima sighed. “That’s the question, isn’t it? I mean, where do you draw the line? If you continually make allowances and extend the definitions of what is acceptable, then is it possible to even draw a line? I mean at this point it’s—it’s clones today and designer babies tomorrow.”

Delphine met Cosima’s eyes, looked away, and then reestablished eye contact. In a careful tone, she said, “Would that be bad?”

Cosima blew out a breath. “When you get down to it, most body modifications, of the type we’re talking about, is self-determined. It’s a choice an individual made for him- or herself. I chose to get my tattoo and I chose to get my piercings. I choose to wear glasses instead of getting Lasik.”

“Yes, but if you’re implying that genetically modifying human beings will take away the power of choice from a person, it should be acknowledged that some parents pierce the ears of their children and many parents choose to circumcise their sons without consulting their children. Would being able to choose the genes of their child be that much different?”

“Yeah,” Cosima guffawed. She waved her hand, done now, and aided in its drying. “Think about it. We can even put aside the matter of autonomous choice for now. But let’s say we perfect the technology to genetically customize human beings. If you allow parents to choose from a catalogue of genes, they’ll probably make the same basic selections: children who are smarter or taller or more athletic or creative and have certain hair types or maybe even racial features, if we’re really going out on a limb. They’ll want kids who are above average, right? These designer people will be seen as having an unfair natural advantage—which will also probably relate to their parents’ material advantage, because who’s gonna be able to afford to design their babies? We’ll have the haves on one side and the have-nots on the other. Then, say, the technology becomes widespread and anyone can craft an ‘above-average’ child. But what’s perceived as average will continually be augmented. If everyone’s a genius, then is anyone a genius? Taken to its most extreme, we maybe even end up reducing genetic variety by artificial means and narrow selection, eliminating mutations and their sometimes unexpected advancements.” 

As Cosima wound down in her excitement, Delphine regarded her with a mixture of wariness and astonishment. “That is certainly taking the possibilities to the extreme. What parent, though, wouldn’t want to spare their child the hardships of disease if it were possible?”

“But that’s what I mean, Delphine. If you make genetic modification for the prevention of disease acceptable, then why shouldn’t the rest follow? It’s like what you implied about plastic surgery and the degree to which we find it acceptable. If at a fundamental level it’s no different from any other form of accepted body modification, then why shouldn’t it also be regarded by the same token?”

Delphine’s gaze lowered and then slid back up to Cosima’s. “But would that be wrong?”

Cosima exhaled through her nose.

“We’re not just talking about physical evolution,” Delphine said quietly, “but a—a consequent evolution of thought. To stretch the imagination of what we can be. To become all that we imagine.”

Cosima’s eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “Do you really believe that?”

Delphine shrugged. “We get nearer to making the possible into reality everyday. We are in a time when we are redefining even the notions of gender and sex, characteristics once seen as fundamental and biologically determined. We are changing the ways in which the expression of our identities become reflected in altered biologies. Are these bad things?”

“Some people say they are,” Cosima hedged.

“What do you say?”

“The thing is this: not everyone is going to agree about what’s okay and what’s not okay. Not everyone would be okay with being a designer baby.”

“But no one gets to choose their genetics in the first place.”

“Yet it’s one thing to be the result of chance and probability and another thing to know that you’re deliberately crafted down to even how you smell.”

Their eyes held. From behind Delphine’s irises, Cosima sensed the question forming, but it still surprised her.

“Is it?” It was an honest question.

Cosima gave her an honest answer. “Yeah, it is.” She eyed Delphine. “You just made up most of those points right now, didn’t you?”

Delphine’s eyebrows arched. “Does that make them any less valid?”

Cosima shook her head. But she was smiling. “Is that what hanging around Leekie does to you?”

Delphine’s gaze flickered. She sat back a bit, spun the bottle of polish by its handle in a slow quarter turn. "He believes it, you know. They are not empty words to him. His convictions make his ideas compelling."

“Yeah, well, his convictions,” Cosima said, spreading her arms in an indication of herself.

“You think what they did was bad?” Delphine asked quietly. Cosima opted not to answer. Delphine’s brow dipped. “Can good come out of bad?”

Cosima groaned. “Oh, no, not this Chaucer crap.”

“Chaucer . . . crap?”

Cosima grinned at her crookedly. “Ask me about that another time. Besides, who says I’m good?”

Delphine sat in silence, expression closed. Then she smiled. “I believe you made that claim, last night.”

Cosima stared at her, blushed, made to cover her face, and finally laughed. She sat on the edge of her seat and leaned forward, holding up her painted hand. “Are these dry yet? I wouldn’t want to ruin them with what I’m about to do next.”


	7. California Dreamin' (Cophine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 15, 2013

The smile on Cosima's face made the trip worth it. The flight delays, the mis-routed baggage, the hassle with the rental car agents—seeing the joy in Cosima's expression made the aggravation melt—

"What are you doing?" Delphine's question carried a note of alarm. Cosima grinned at her, one arm worked out of the sleeve of her sweater, the other well on its way.

"C'mon," Cosima goaded as she shimmied out of her sweater and tossed it onto the sand. Her fingers proceeded to the hem of her camisole.

"Cosima, you're not wearing your bathing suit," Delphine hissed, sweeping her gaze back and forth to verify that, yes, they weren't magically alone on the beach.

"Bikinis are just lingerie sets made out of Lycra and nylon," Cosima reasoned, doffing her top. "C'mon."

"We can come back tomorrow," Delphine insisted. She plucked up Cosima's sweater and tried to thrust it at her, then tried to outright cover her up. Cosima danced away with a wider grin. "We are coming back tomorrow. We have a week."

"Come on, Delphine," wheedled Cosima as she hopped around on one foot, freeing it of her leggings. "No one's going to yell at you for going swimming in your underwear. Unless you've gone commando today?"

"No. And I don't know what that term means."

"Are you wearing underwear?"

"Yes?"

"Then you're not commando."

"Oh." Delphine considered Cosima just about stripped down to her bra and panties. Matching. As usual. "Please put your clothes back on."

"Please take your clothes off," Cosima snapped back. "Or, fine, leave all your clothes on, but you'll regret it when you have nothing dry to change into."

"We don't even have towels. Our clothes will get wet once we get back into them."

"Details, details. Please?" Cosima said. She grabbed Delphine's hand and looked up at her, lips pursed in a pout.

She looked ridiculous. She was being silly and she was going to catch a cold and she was standing there in her underwear in full public view asking Delphine to do the same.

Really, Delphine thought five minutes later as her clothes joined the pile that Cosima had made, it should have gotten easier to say "no" to Cosima the longer they knew each other.

Cosima grinned the whole time Delphine undressed. The moment she hopped out of her jeans, Cosima grabbed Delphine's hands and started backpedaling toward the wet sand that marked the surf line's reach at high tide. The soft shifting sand firmed up beneath their feet at the demarcation. Cosima slowed, glanced over her shoulder, and then, without warning, tightened her grip on Delphine's fingers and picked up her pace, forcing Delphine into a jog. Delphine let out a small gasp of surprise and Cosima whooped as the tide rolled out and they chased after it.

Delphine wasn't paying much attention, she had to admit, concerned as she was about not crashing into Cosima or tripping or the fact that she was running around under late afternoon California sun in her underwear for any eye to see, or she would have seen the next wave gathering, forces pulling and rolling, the white crest building, compounded by the wave coming in behind it, all of them hurtling toward the two of them.

The wave crashed into Cosima first, who had braced herself for the impact, teeth biting into her lower lip as the water made contact. The wave continued, implacable, and slapped into Delphine.

Delphine _screeched._

" _C'est froid!_ "

Cosima's laughter answered her. "Pa-Pacific Ocean," Cosima gasped between giggles that threatened to topple her into the ocean. "Wa-water from the n-north! M-maybe I should have—should have mentioned it. S-sorry."

Delphine glared at her, open-mouthed, rigid. She stood still as the next wave crashed into her shins, sucked and swirled around her ankles, swallowing a gasp at the water's cool kiss. 

"Oh, you brat," Delphine intoned lowly. Cosima raised her head to glimpse Delphine's expression and immediately dropped the blonde's hands and took off running, heedless of the water's chill. "Uh uh, come back here!" Delphine yelled after her as she struggled to get her frozen limbs to move in pursuit.

"Gotta catch me first!" Cosima hollered, only to put on a burst of speed when she saw how quickly Delphine's strides were eating up the distance between them. "Whoa, whoa, I'm wearing my glasses, I'm wearing my glasses!"

"You should have thought of that first!" Delphine called after her, smiling despite herself and the attention of onlookers drawn by their shouting, despite the unforgiving and really-not-so-enjoyable Pacific Ocean (though its frigid bite lessened with each passing wave), laughing entirely because of the smile on Cosima's face and the joy in her expression.

 _Worth it,_ Delphine thought. Right before she caught up to Cosima, stumbled, and dragged them both into the embrace of the ocean.


	8. Cophine Post-Not-Drabbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Additional pieces in the ["Rewind, Repair, Replay"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/940551) 'verse. I couldn't get a substantial collection together, so I didn't post them to AO3 back then.

**Cophine Post-Not-Drabble 1.4 (October 29, 2013)**

Sometimes it felt like always groping for a play/pause button and hitting the fast forward instead. Like this, slipping her arms around Delphine’s waist, melting into her back, a nuzzle for the space between her shoulder blades, as Delphine hummed in welcome, wet up to her elbows in soap suds and the meager stack of dirty dishes. How, consciously, knowingly, she indulged the impulses to touch Delphine as she wished, barriers and boundaries and good sense ignored, letting go and never just falling—but plummeting, acceleration unchecked, no suspension by terminal velocity, a descent with no landing and no return.

And yes that voice of caution whispered for Cosima to have a care, but in the growing cacophony of concerns shouting ever louder and urgently for her attention, this was one voice Cosima found herself wanting more and more to dismiss.

*

It should have felt rushed, like it always looked in retrospect after Cosima had already leapt, but instead it felt warm, a refuge, the wordless insinuation of her body against Delphine’s, thigh sidled up to thigh, the blonde’s arm curled around her back, in a quiet interrupted only by periodic requests to turn the page, a reluctance to disturb their repose.

It should have felt alarming, this surrender, this nourishing of an insatiable hunger for a particular brand of comfort, a desire for the assurance of a lover, of being loved, the availability of a body offering to hold and be held.

But Delphine made it so easy to capitulate, her presence an implicit _yes_ , and it was making of Cosima a glutton, an addict, compelling her always to return for more.

*

There were instances like these: Delphine considering her from the towering height of her upright stature, debating, before she sank, awkwardly, into a crouch that lowered the blonde to her knees and settled her resting, contemplative, upon her haunches. Next the shift of her weight forward, hands splaying bracingly upon the floor, and the extension of first one leg and then the other to their full length. Then a bit of fidgeting, elbows tucking in and underneath her torso, hands folding, necklace settling upon the carpet, and suddenly there beside the brunette Delphine stretched out on her stomach, shoulder abutting shoulder, a visitor to Cosima’s floorspace domain—that offered her every minute discomfort. But there she remained—adjusting, repressing grimaces against the meeting of jutting bones and unyielding hardwood—as Cosima’s explanation of the articles she’d pulled up ran long and while they conducted an extensive database search for a string of related terms and when Cosima happened to click on the tab with the funny cat video Delphine had to see. And whereupon finishing Delphine did not stand up and flee, as Cosima expected in the wake of her ordeal, but turned to her with a smile of intent. 

And if from there Delphine proceeded to make sure that it would be Cosima’s back that would be complaining the next day, Cosima put up no protest.

It was, Cosima supposed, only fair. 

*

It was so tempting to forget. Around Delphine. Regarding Delphine. To let the conspiracy and its threats, the science and its mysteries, the past and its injuries recede. To pretend that all was right in her world and Delphine in her place in it. What with the way light struck and dallied upon her hair, cast shadows to bring out her cheeks and soften the line of her jaw, picked out the variations of shading in her irises that focused keen and intent when they caught Cosima watching and then eased affectionate into the crinkles of a smile, lips glossy and inviting even from across a room. Or seeing how their lives intermingled without planned discussion, as matter-of-factly as laundry combined into a single load and separated again without commotion, but for the oversized T-shirt of Cosima’s that Delphine claimed for her pile, its freshened cottony expanse sometimes pressed briefly to her nose before being folded to pack away. And hearing the gradual manner _chérie_ crept back into Delphine’s speech—hesitant at first, with a pause and a glance at Cosima’s face—and unfurled in her dulcet tones to denote _Cosima_ , snagging in the rhythm of her heartbeat and putting to shame English correspondents that struck Cosima’s ear as vulgar in comparison, so that _dear_ and _babe_ and _sweetie_ and _honey_ sounded insufficient as substitutes for _Delphine_. How this led Cosima, for a lung-seizing second, to contemplate the shape of _love_.

How it may have sufficed.

How it might sound right.

If only Cosima hadn’t struck it from her vocabulary. 

If only Delphine could make her forget she had.

* * *

**2.1 (November 10, 2013)**

Like this, on the bed, with Delphine’s head pillowed upon Cosima’s thigh, hair spilled over the blanket covering Cosima’s legs, the brunette’s fingers curling idle waves through the locks, the room pressed around the pair warm and cozy against the assault of rain outside. Droplets pelted the windows in pinpoint taps that masked the deepening rhythm of Delphine’s breathing, the pages in her hand drooping over backwards unattended, the ends pitching toward the bedspread until paper and fabric met with a whispery scratch. 

Sat propped up against the headboard, Cosima looked up from her laptop screen to the source of the noise, and then down at Delphine’s profile, whose eyes and face were closed as sleep stole up on her. Cosima smiled. Carefully, gently, she brushed Delphine’s hair back, off her cheek, the light-colored bulk of it gathering beneath Cosima’s hand to reveal the lengthening darkness along Delphine’s hairline. 

To the room at large, Cosima softly remarked, “A trip to the salon may be in order.”

"Hm?" came an answering hum, slurred with lethargy but far from unconscious. Cosima started and the throaty murmur became a mewl and a wince in protest against the sudden tug of Cosima’s fingers, snarled within a lock of hair. Expression relaxing, eyes still closed, Delphine wet her lips and murmured, "Which one?”

Cosima contemplated the not-so-asleep Delphine. After a moment, she freed her fingers and slid them through Delphine’s hair, mindful of tangles, earning a purr of approval. “Which salon?” 

Delphine smiled. “Yes. Which salon.”

Cosima’s fingers stilled. “When was the last time you got a touch up?”

Delphine’s eyes blinked open, smile fading. She squinted through the bedroom doorway into the unoccupied living room space, wreathed in the dimness of the clouded skies beyond the windows. “Before I came to Minneapolis.” 

They let that sit between them.

Cosima’s fingers resumed their light scritching, fluffing at the roots of Delphine’s hair. 

“Does it bother you, my hair?” Delphine asked. Cosima hummed noncommittally. “Maybe I should grow it out.” Delphine rolled and twisted upon her thigh pillow to glimpse Cosima’s reaction. The brunette’s mouth cut a thin line across the lower half of her face.

“Well,” Cosima said, combing through Delphine’s locks, head tilting at a skeptical angle, “depends what you mean by ‘grow it out.’ If you mean that you want to go darker, you should probably still visit the salon and get it all dyed one color.”

Delphine laughed, traces of sleepiness hanging upon each chuckle, and adjusted to lie so that she could more easily look up at Cosima. “You are so … so conscious of appearances.”

Cosima made a face. “Are you trying to say I’m vain and shallow?”

"No?" Delphine’s puzzlement shone through an unguardedness in her eyes, the focus of her gaze fuzzied by the efforts of her mind to fully wake up. "I mean that you are aware of—" She shook her head indecisively. Beneath her movements Cosima tensed, muscles spazzing, tickled. "—presentation. The way others present themselves, the way you do."

Cosima stared down at Delphine. “Dude,” she deadpanned, “ _duh_.”

Delphine rolled her eyes, but could not help a smile. “Yes, obviously— _obvs_. But, you know, it surprised me at first.”

Cosima hitched a brow. “What do you mean?”

Delphine gestured with the papers she still clutched in one hand and then tossed them aside. “When I first saw you, you were so … _you_. You … wear your personality. You apply as much care and attention to putting yourself together as you do to your studies. I had seen pictures of you.” Delphine glanced into Cosima’s face. The brunette merely nodded, interest keen, expression unchanging. “But they did not prepare me to see the way you move, the way you stand, the way you walk, the way you talk. Everything about you was far more—forward, more _assertive_ than I expected. Seeing and learning more about you only reinforced that impression.”

Cosima considered Delphine from a canted angle. “You must have loved getting a look at my place.”

"When I saw it, it … made sense," Delphine confirmed. 

"That it was messy and cluttered?" Cosima challenged. 

"That it was filled with so many things," Delphine said diplomatically. Her brow crinkled in consternation. "Full of things?" 

“Either way what you really mean is that it was ‘messy and cluttered’.” 

“Brat.” Delphine grinned. “Remember, you said it, not I. It’s true, though, that I hardly knew where to look that first time.”

A smile teased at Cosima’s lips faintly, fleetingly, disappearing as she sucked in her lips and swallowed. Behind her glasses her eyes sobered, somber. “I’ve never seen your place.”

Delphine’s mirth evaporated. A quiet settled in her features. “There’s not much to see.”

Cosima’s eyebrows rose and fell. “According to you.”

Delphine shook her head, eyes rueful. “It is not like you think. That place is not like the home you’ve made here, that speaks to your personality and your interests. I did not decorate it. I didn’t even choose the furniture. It was just … a place provided for me to live in. It didn’t feel like my home.” Delphine shrugged. “If you were to see it, you’d probably only learn what they thought would appeal to you. “

Cosima absorbed Delphine’s words, drawing tiny whorls upon Delphine’s skull as she thought. “But you lived there.” Her free hand punctuated the air. “The bulk of your things are there. You still go back to get clothes and books and journals.” Cosima’s head jerked in a ruminative shake. “I find it hard to believe that some of ‘you’ didn’t—sneak onto the shelves or the walls or the countertops or into the closets and the drawers. That there aren’t little touches that say ‘Delphine.’”

“Maybe,” Delphine conceded. “Given time, maybe definitely. But it’s difficult to say now whether those ‘touches’ would have gone toward building the person I was supposed to become.”

“Supposed to become,” Cosima muttered. “But even that wouldn’t have been entirely a lie. You can’t fake being an immunologist in front of an actual microbiologist. You can’t fake curiosity and interest of that caliber.”

Delphine smiled. “Maybe if I were an actress. A very good one.” Cosima snickered. “But, no, I am only an immunologist, _en vérité_.”

Cosima’s gaze flattened, eyeliner emphasizing the narrowing of her eyes, her expression the very visual of a hum that never emerged. Instead Cosima pinched a few strands of Delphine’s hair between her thumb and index finger, running them through her fingers to the full extension of their different lengths, individual strands even lighter observed alone, nabbed in the drift of gravity as they came free. “Was going blonde part of—becoming a different person?”

“In part?” Delphine answered, sounding unsure. “I was given a new identity, going by a new name, pretending to be someone not quite like myself—it seemed logical that I should look different, too. It—it made me feel more … settled in the role.”

“So no one told you to change your appearance?”

Delphine shook her head. “No.” Her gaze turned shrewd. “Why? Do you have a … preference _pour les blondes_?” An eyebrow quirked up at Cosima.

“Not … necessarily,” Cosima hemmed.

“So … yes?”

“No,” Cosima groused. 

A grin brightened Delphine’s face, but it dimmed into wistfulness. Her eyes roamed over Cosima’s face, scrunched up in petulant affront, and softened.

“I like this,” Delphine whispered.

Her tone sharpened Cosima’s attention and brought it concentrated upon her face. “Like what?”

Delphine reached up and ran the back of her fingers along Cosima’s jaw. Beneath the contact, Delphine felt Cosima stiffen, then lean subtly into her touch. She turned her hand as she slipped along the familiar line and circled her touch around, brushing her fingertips across Cosima’s cheek before reluctantly withdrawing her hand.

“Talking openly with you.”

Cosima peered owlishly down at her. “You mean without me biting your head off.” 

Perplexity drew Delphine’s eyebrows together. “That is … an unpleasant image.”

Cosima smoothed down Delphine’s hair with the flat of her palm. “But accurate?”

After a moment, Delphine nodded. They regarded each other, their respective angles and reposes out of alignment, awkward, but their gazes clear. Cosima’s eyes flicked away briefly, returned. In the unbroken silence her fingers resumed playing in Delphine’s hair. The blonde’s eyelids fluttered, drooped, closed.

A moment later Cosima leaned down and pressed her lips to Delphine’s forehead. Delphine blinked up at her as she pulled back.

“I like it, too,” Cosima said.

* * *

**3.1 (January 23, 2014)**

The doorknob rattled and into the previous silence rustled paper and the crack reports of foot falls on the hardwood floor. 

“ _Chérie? C’est moi!_ ” The front door banged into its frame with a reverberating shudder as Cosima’s free hand slapped—too slow—over the mic of the pink-encased cell phone. Abrupt silence buzzed through the speaker against Cosima’s ear as Delphine’s back bustled into the framing of the empty doorway between bedroom and common space, receding at the rate of boot clicks for the kitchen counter, dark-wooled and statuesque. 

“The door was open,” remarked Delphine a tad breathlessly, setting down the paper bags in her arms. She continued, turning, “Did you forget to . . . ?” Her eyes fixed on the mobile pressed to Cosima’s ear, exuberance fading as succinctly as her words. 

“Was that Delphine?” Sarah inquired via the phone with carefully modulated calm.

Delphine frowned, expression uncertain, eyes darting toward the front door. Cosima sent her a small shake of her head. Delphine ducked her head, pushed back her hair, and spun slowly on a heel.

“Are you shitting me right now?” Sarah hissed.

Cosima uncovered the microphone and brushed her fingertips across her lips. She glanced again at Delphine and then turned away to retreat deeper into her bedroom. “Sarah.”

“Is she why you’re thinking about going to work for those bastards? Is she telling you to go to them?”

"Okay, hold up," Cosima said, trying to project as much calm as possible through the cellular waves. "Sarah. We've talked before about me going to work for DYAD and studying us from the inside. This isn't a new plan. My decision to go to them or not has nothing to do with Delphine."

"Yeah, but she's not gonna bloody well stop you if you do," snapped Sarah. 

"She supports—" Cosima bit off the rest of the sentence, but Sarah picked up the snipped thread. 

"So you _have_ talked to her about working for them," growled Sarah. The scientist stuffed down a sigh of frustration and exasperation. "What else have you talked to her about?"

"Nothing," Cosima insisted, too hastily. "Just what she needs to know to help me—with the science. We agreed that we could trust her with that much.”

“It sounds like you’re trusting her with a whole lot more’n that, Cos.”

Cosima shook her head and cut through the air with her free hand. “You know what, I’m not arguing with you about this. I need . . . I want her help. She’s smart, Sarah. She knows her science.” 

“You can’t trust her, Cosima!” Sarah exploded through the earpiece. “You can’t trust any of them. Just look at Paul. They—jerked his strings and he went right back to working for them. They’ve all got agendas and lies to cover ‘em up!” 

“Maybe I am her agenda.”

“You think that’s a good thing?” Sarah guffawed.

“When you’re drowning and someone throws you a lifesaver, sometimes you just have to hang on,” Cosima sniped back and regretted it. The ringing of Sarah’s silence signaled she’d let too much slip. Cosima rubbed at her forehead. 

“I know you want to trust her,” Sarah said softly. “Or that you’re telling yourself that you’re using her or whatever. But . . . don’t be blinded, yeah?”

Cosima exhaled hard through her nose. “What does that mean?”

“It means you gotta be smart and you gotta be careful.”

Cosima shook her head. “Caution is for people with time. We’re running out of time. I’m running out of time t—to give Leekie my answer.”

“Just—” Cosima imagined she could hear the phone whipping about as she envisioned Sarah shaking her head. 

“Just what?” Cosima prompted. “Stay away from Delphine?”

“Remember what you said to me about her.” Sarah paused. “That you should have listened.”

Cosima glowered into the empty space of her bedroom.

“Look,” Sarah said when Cosima didn’t reply, “we’ll talk more when—is Delphine still there? Has she been there this whole time?”

Cosima pivoted and spied Delphine beyond the partition carefully and conscientiously putting away groceries. “Yeah.”

The line buzzed with silence. 

“Bloody Christ,” Sarah breathed at last.

“Bye, Sarah,” Cosima replied, sounding more curt than she intended. At the announcement of her leavetaking Delphine went still, bracing her hands against the kitchen counter and leaning over it, head bowed. 

“Yeah. Whatever.” Sarah sighed in her ear. “Just—take care, yeah?”

“You, too. Bye.”

Sarah’s answering farewell barely transmitted across the line before Cosima’s finger stabbed the disconnect button. She lowered the phone and stood watching Delphine. After a moment, Delphine straightened up, lifted her head, and turned, so that she leaned back on the counter.

Softly, Delphine said, "I’m sorry."

“For what?” Cosima said. 

Delphine’s eyes narrowed in confusion, a wrinkle between her brows. She gestured vaguely at the front door. “I should have—”

Cosima shook her head and waved a hand. “I’ll remember to lock the door next time. My bad. I meant to, I just—forgot.”

Delphine nodded slowly, lips parted slightly in cautious hesitation. She pushed onto her feet and swiped a bright yellow box off the counter. Slipping her fingers beneath the top tab and tugging, she approached Cosima. “I, um, couldn’t find the, uh, Pocky?—” Cosima nodded. “—that you asked for.”

Cosima chuckled. “Don’t worry about it. I told you that you probably wouldn’t find it. Pocky’s probably not as big a snack here as it is in San Fran.”

"It seems so. I tried asking someone for help but the poor woman had no idea what I was talking about." Delphine shrugged, reached into the opened box, and extracted an equally neon yellow packet that she held out to Cosima. “Well, since I couldn’t find them, I thought maybe these would be okay instead?”

Cosima took the packet and turned it over in her hand. She grinned. “Gushers! Oh man, I haven’t had these since—” She raised her head and found Delphine smiling faintly.

“There are also Doritos—” Her pronunciation, carefully enunciated and delightfully off, stretched Cosima’s grin wider. “—and ice cream. Um, Drumsticks?”

Cosima’s grin eased into a quieter smile. “Thank you. You didn’t have to.”

Delphine nodded slowly, angling for the bed. She lowered herself to sit on the edge and deposited the box of Gushers behind her, closer to the center of the bed. Cosima drifted over to join her, tossing the pink phone ahead of her. It bounced, flipped, and came to a rest screen-down atop the comforter. Delphine tracked its arc, lingering on it briefly while Cosima settled next to her, drawing her legs up underneath her.

When Delphine turned her attention back to Cosima, she stared at Cosima’s knees, sheathed tight in opaque leggings, before raising her eyes. “That was Sarah.”

Cosima pinched the packet of fruit snacks between her fingers and ran the serrated sealed edge between her fingers, focused intently on the task. “Yeah.”

“She was . . . upset? About me?”

Cosima heaved a sigh. “First about me going to DYAD, but then about you, too, yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Cosima asked again, raising her eyes to Delphine's face. 

Delphine frowned. "For . . . for making things difficult between you and Sarah." Delphine glanced down at her hands and then back up. "For announcing myself like that."

Cosima's gaze trekked over Delphine's features, then dropped to her lap. She tugged at a corner of the packet, struggled with the plastic, and finally managed to tear off a triangle-shaped edge. "Sarah and I disagree. A lot." She plucked a fruit snack from the packet and rolled it between her fingers. "She likes to do things her way while I think that we should take different approaches. But I think—I still think that we have the same goals, more or less, that despite our differences, we should try to be . . . open with each other." Cosima tapped the liquid-filled confection against the packet in her other hand and looked at Delphine steadily. "I'm not hiding you, Delphine. I've never hidden you, actually." She rolled her eyes. "Which is maybe why we have this problem now. None of us can take back what's been said and done." 

"I did not give them Kira's name," Delphine uttered softly, not as an argument, but as a weary statement. 

"You gave Leekie Sarah's name, right? And maybe that led them to Kira. _Somehow_ they found Kira and I can't think of—I can't see how else they learned about her. And that's—" Cosima shrugged helplessly, gesturing vaguely into the air. "—that's what happened, whatever else you did or didn't do. Maybe Sarah can forgive that one day, but I don't know if she'll ever forget."

Cosima's words put a furrow in Delphine's brow. "I did not know that they did not know about Sarah."

Cosima's jaw flexed. With a quick movement she popped the gusher into her mouth and chewed, sucking at the sugary liquid that burst excessively sweet across her tongue. "You did your job. You did what Leekie asked you to do."

"Yes. I did. But I also thought I was helping you. That Leekie would—that he would protect you from—from whatever danger threatened you."

With her tongue Cosima worried at a piece of gummy fruit snack that had lodged in her teeth. When she'd dislodged most of it, taking the time to consider Delphine, she said, "Did you really think he would protect us?" 

Delphine ducked her head. Cosima peered closely into her face. Delphine avoided her gaze. 

"You didn't, did you?" Cosima wondered aloud, slowly. "That's why you withheld Kira's name. Even then you didn't think that they had our best interests in mind."

"I . . ." Delphine shook her head. "They had—they have reasons to want to protect you, to keep you safe and—and healthy."

"You mean that they have a tremendous investment in us," Cosima rephrased quietly. "I tried that one on Sarah. She didn't buy it."

"Did you believe it?" Delphine asked in a near whisper, meeting Cosima's eyes. 

"I wanted to," Cosima admitted.

Delphine gazed at Cosima levelly. "So did I."

"But you didn’t or you stopped believing," Cosima asserted in a rasp. "That’s why you didn’t give him Kira’s name. It’s why you told me Leekie was lying to me.” Her eyes glinted shrewdly. “Unless you were lying about that.” Cosima turned thoughtful. “Though is it is a lie if what you said was technically true but you said it to get my trust in a dishonest way? I guess you’d just call that a ruse. I guess a ruse is a lie, right?”

As Cosima rambled on, Delphine’s brow furrowed and scrunched until, reading Delphine's expression, Cosima held out the open packet. “Want one?”

Delphine stared at it, lips parted, and then looked back up into Cosima's face. Cosima lifted her eyebrows at her. Delphine chuckled, helplessly, a smile pulling at her mouth . “No. No, thank you.”

“C’mon,” Cosima wheedled, jiggling the packet. “Try one.”

The proffered packet didn't waver. Recognizing a refusal to relent, Delphine reached into the packet and plucked out one of the jewel-shaped bites. It was soft and malleable between her fingertips, suggestive of sticky. With Cosima watching her intently, Delphine placed the treat upon her tongue and closed her mouth. She rolled the fruit snack around in her mouth, taste buds inundated with sweetness, and hesitantly bit down. She winced. Cosima grinned.

“Sweet,” Delphine declared delicately, chewing.

“Just a bit,” Cosima concurred. Her expression sobered in an eyeblink. “Where does that leave us, if we both distrust Leekie?”

Delphine sucked at her teeth, trying to clean the inside of her mouth of the sugariness that contained no trace resemblance to any fruit she had ever had. She sighed. "I don’t know. What are the options? Stay here. Go to DYAD. Go to . . . someone else? Go to Sarah?”

“Go to Sarah?” Cosima guffawed. “And . . . do what? Drive Sarah crazy? Set up a portable lab and conduct experiments on the run? God, could you imagine? If we could figure out how to do that, we could get rich off the patents." Delphine winced at the p-word, but Cosima merely studied Delphine. "And what about you? Would you be okay hanging around Sarah?” 

Delphine blew out a breath through her nose. “I’m not sure Sarah would want me around at all.”

“So?” Cosima snapped. “She doesn’t get a say in the matter.”

“And like you pointed out,” Delphine continued, skirting around Cosima’s assertion, “it would not be possible to continue researching in such circumstances.”

Cosima's eyes narrowed. “So—what? What are you saying? Are you suggesting that _I_ would go to Sarah but you would—what?”

Delphine licked her lips. “I’m saying that one day you may be forced to choose a side—and that that side may not welcome my presence.”

“I welcome you,” Cosima said heatedly. 

Their gazes locked and held.

Cosima looked away, breathing out noisily through her nose. "Look, what you're trying to suggest is, is—stupid." She swiveled her scrutiny back on Delphine and inhale, exhaled sharply. "You're saying that I would go to Sarah because that would be—be safe? While you go to Leekie and DYAD and—if they don't just make you disappear—continue to research our biology." Cosima shook her head. "But, one, Sarah's always in stuck in the middle of some kind of shit, so forget about going to Sarah for safety. It would just make her life harder to have—more people to worry about. Two, I'll still be sick wherever I go. This— _thing_ with my lungs isn't going to magically go away. And if I'm with Sarah or, or someplace I don't have access to equipment and resources, then I'm—I won't be able to _do_ anything. I'll be—" Cosima gestured wildly, threatening to spill fruit gushers everywhere. "—I'll be helpless." She pressed her lips together and frowned, before declaring, "So that plan sucks and there's no point in separating." She shook her head, expression crumpling a little. "I wouldn't ask you to do that. I wouldn't ask you to go back to them alone."

Delphine breathed in deeply, quietly, and laid her hand upon Cosima's knee. "But I would, if that was the best option."

Cosima looked down at Delphine's hand. "I know. But it's not." Her eyes found Delphine's. "Okay?"

Delphine lifted her hand to Cosima's cheek, stroked gently across the planes of her face with her thumb. Cosima sat rigid, staring into her eyes.

"Okay," Delphine agreed. 

A smile suggested itself upon Cosima's lips. Her eyes softened, touched by relief. Her cheek pressed, minutely, into Delphine's palm.

Delphine smiled. "As long as I don't have to eat any more Gushers."

"You bought them!" Cosima exclaimed.

"They're awful," Delphine groaned, hand dropping to Cosima's shoulder. "I didn't know."

Cosima laughed and darted forward, pressing her lips to Delphine's, slipping her tongue past Delphine's startlement, and pulled away with just as little warning, before Delphine could stop her. Cosima grinned. "That didn't taste so bad to me."

Delphine licked her lips, eyes considering Cosima's. "Mm. Maybe I need another taste."


	9. Clone Fiction (AU; Cosima, Delphine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the silliest ideas I've ever had, in which I wondered: What if the plot of "Orphan Black" was a story that a "normal" Cosima was trying to tell her "normal" girlfriend (and fellow grad student?) Delphine?
> 
> November 13, 2013

"What if I was a clone?" Cosima burst out without warning.

"What?" Delphine barked, startled. "Have you been smoking?"

"Like two hours ago. No, hear me out. What if I was part of some secret cloning experiment?"

"A human cloning trial. A successful one. Conducted in the 1980s?"

"Just go with it."

"Okay. If you're a clone, then you're one of many?"

"Yes. We were secretly implanted in women who sought in vitro treatments all over the world by some super conglomerate. These people monitor us and conduct tests to keep tabs on us, but we don't know about any of it or what we are." 

"Monitor you. This sounds very expensive."

"That's why they're a super conglomerate."

"Ah. I see. Do I feature in this story?"

"Yes. You're sent to me to be my monitor at some point."

"Wait, are you the main character of this story?"

"Everyone is the protagonist of her own story."

"I mean as a scientist, how would you discover and fight these powerful people—because I assume that's what you'll have to do once you discover you're a clone?"

"I . . . don't know."

"It's not like you have super powers. You are not, uh, Peter?"

"Peter Parker?"

"Yes, him. He can be a hero because he has super powers. And you don't have money like the Iron Man."

"Tony Stark? . . . We watch a lot of superhero movies."

"You make me watch them with you."

"You like them!"

"They are okay. Sadly, there are not enough women in them."

"Whatever. You make me watch those artsy movies with you, so we'll call it even."

"Fine. But you still didn't answer me about whether or not you're the main character of this story. Do you plan to science these villains into submission?"

"I guess not . . . If I'm a clone, I'm just one of many, so at least one of us has got to have the potential to be an action hero or something."

\---

"Maybe there needs to be some highlighting of how terrible it would be to find out you're a clone. Like Beth is a tough-as-nails cop, but maybe she snaps and—and like she commits suicide, but just as she does, one of us happens upon her and steals her identity!"

" _Mon dieu_ , are you sure it was two hours ago that you smoked?"

\---

"This Sarah woman sounds very interesting."

"She's sort of like an ex I had."

"Oh. Then I hate this Sarah. She's a terrible character."

\---

"So I am working for the villains?"

"Yes, but they don't necessarily have to be the villains."

"Let's not get into another argument about bioethics. But why am I working for them?"

"For science?"

"How good is the pay?"

"Very generous?"

"I understand now."

\---

"Wait, I am spying on you, but I only changed my last name? Why didn't I change my first name too?"

"Because you're a scientist, not a trained spy."

"So I'm . . . stupid?"

"Do you think it's easy to just go by another name?"

"It can't be that hard."

"What about that time that George kept calling you Marie and you never responded, even though you knew he thought your name was Marie?"

"That's a completely different situation. If I had been pretending to be Marie, then I would have been prepared to respond to being addressed as Marie."

"What about the time you told the Starbucks barista that your name was Adele and then it took like five minutes for you to remember you'd told him that when they kept calling for Adele?"

"I did that?"

"Yes!"

"If you say so. Go on."

\---

"Now I am sleeping with my boss? And did you say he was a man? Is this a joke?"

"At least this you won't make remarks about me being bi." 

"You are making me straight—" 

"Latent bisexual." 

"—out of spite? _Chérie_ , in no world would I be straight. Let's remember who asked out whom. And that you didn't even know we were on a date that first time!"

"In my defense, I figured you were just trying to make friends because you were a foreign student."

"Did you not see how I smiled at you from across the lab when our eyes first met?"

"Do you know how bad my distance vision is?"

\---

"So . . . you give yourself the privilege of being my first woman?" 

"It's not like I could say no to you." 

" _C'est vrai_. You would not put up much of a fight. But you are the one seducing me?" 

"Mutual seduction?" 

"Ah, is that how you remember—what did you call it—me wining and dining you? Because to me it felt like I did most of the work."

"It takes work to be cute, too."

"Oh, please."

"Are you saying I'm not cute?"

"Do you think I would have bothered if you weren't?"

"Exactly. Mutual seduction."

\---

"So I betray you. Even though I don't know why I would do that. This is why I would not sleep with my much older male boss."

"Would you sleep with your much older female boss?"

"Depends. Is she beautiful and intelligent and charming? Would I get a promotion or a raise?"

"Okay, I was saying all these things for the sake of the story, but maybe this is drawing from more truth than fiction."

"You have to think about the future, _chérie_."

\---

"So then I find out your real identity."

"Dr. Cormier."

"Doctor? Whoa, did you just give yourself a doctorate?"

"Why not? We are making up this story, _non_? You made me straight."

"Latent bisexual."

\---

"So with my betrayal revealed, you cannot trust me."

"Yeah. I'd have to chase you away. Out of a need to protect everyone."

"We both know I am very stubborn. I would put up many protests. How would you make me go away?" 

". . . Insult your skills in bed?" 

"What? What kind of terrible person are you? We both know that would be a blatant lie, straight me or not."

\---

"I what?"

"Follow me to another city to prove you're on my side." 

"Why would I do that after you insulted my skills in bed?" 

"Because you love me?" 

"We both know that if you said anything like that to me, you'd have to beg for forgiveness on your knees, not the other way around." 

"But you're a bad guy in this story." 

"Are we sure we're clear who the bad guy is here?" 

\---

"Is Alison based on your roommate? Or another ex?"

"She's based on your mom."


	10. Have I Seen You Somewhere? (Arthur Bell, Cosima Niehaus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> November 19, 2013

The late lunch rush crowd at Fung's was mostly halfway through their meals when Arthur Bell stepped inside. His eyes scanned the tables and booths, the weight of his gun in its holster cold comfort. The text had been simple: "You have questions. I have answers. Meet me tomorrow at Fung's. 2pm. - Friend of Sarah's"

None of the single diners did more than glance up when he walked in. Art did a double sweeping survey just in case. He frowned. His phone buzzed with an incoming message. He fished it out of his pocket.

"Get a table."

A waiter looked at him inquisitively. Art held up a pair of fingers to indicate a table for two and was ushered into a booth. The detective slipped in, facing the door, ignoring the menu plopped in front of him.

It would have been hard to miss the woman who stepped in: red coat, the dreads, the hipster glasses, a bit short, but she would have stood out in a crowd. The same waiter approached her, but she smiled, waved him off, and made immediately for Art's booth.

Art leaned back and took a long hard look at her as she came up to stand beside the table.

"Hi," the woman said, voice gravelly, textured, low. No British accent, but definitely not local. Art stared.

"Mind if I sit?" she asked.

"Yeah," Art said slowly. "Yeah, go ahead."

The woman slid into the booth opposite him with an uncertain smile—he expected it to look familiar, the way looking at Sarah Manning felt like looking at Beth, but there was something off about it. No edge. Beth had edges, prickly, sometimes abrasive, sharp and jagged. Loved to call him dipshit. Sarah had had something like the caged animal in her, too, an unpredictable quality.

Art wasn't sure who or what he was looking at.

The woman folded her hands and put them on the table just as the waiter came around with another menu and an additional set of utensils. She smiled at this one too, thanked him.

Maybe it was the glasses throwing him off. Or the dreads.

"Just water for me," she was saying and then looked to Art expectantly.

"Uh, yeah, same for me," he fumbled. 

Then they were alone again, studying each other.

"Who are you?" Art demanded.

The woman licked her lips—they looked chapped and dry, on the verge of cracking. "My name is Cosima."

"Not Sarah," Art tested. The woman smiled, eyes brightening.

"No, not her. I wasn't sure if you would need me to take off my glasses."

"Sarah didn't wear glasses."

"Neither did Beth," "Cosima" added. 

Art's breath caught. He took a moment to process that. This lookalike knew about Beth, too. From the shrewd look in her eyes, she'd let that slip deliberately, to test him. He swallowed. 

"But you look like both of them."

"You could say they look like me," Cosima bandied.

The waiter returned with glasses of water, giving Art a moment to think. They requested more time to deliberate; Cosima hadn't even glanced at the menu.

"Your message said you were a friend of Sarah Manning's. That woman is a criminal who stole my dead partner's identity. Beth's."

Cosima didn't react. She wasn't a poker-faced woman. Not like Beth, not like Sarah. His little probes told him she was aware of those facts.

"Sarah Manning should be behind bars for impersonating an officer and obstruction of justice," Art continued.

"Your partner shot and killed a woman," Cosima said quietly, expression saddening. "We do what we have to do, Detective Bell."

Art clenched his jaw. "What the hell is going on here?"

Cosima glanced away, scanning the tables around them, and then leaned over the table. "Detective, we have to know if we can trust you."

"We? You and Sarah? Are there others?"

Cosima shook her head minutely. "One thing at a time, Detective." Her eyes flicked away again. Art followed her line of sight, how it cut a direct path across the room, met her eyes again. "Lives are at stake. We're . . . we're in danger."

"Sarah said something about needing to protect her daughter."

Cosima paused, then nodded. "We need help. But I don't think we can seek it through official channels. You were Beth's partner, though."

"My partner's dead," Art said flatly. "Suicide."

"I know," Cosima said. "And maybe what's happening to us drove her to it."

Art glowered at the woman across the table. "Where's Sarah Manning?"

Cosima shook her head. "I can't tell you that."

"You said you have answers for me."

"Can we trust you?" Cosima reiterated.

Art was breathing hard, he realized. A few deep breaths slowed his pounding pulse. He put his hands upon the table palms down. "Look, lady, I'm the one who should be asking you that. For starters, why don't you invite blondie over there to join us?"

As he'd predicted. Cosima glanced toward the blonde in question, who sat alone at a table diagonally to theirs, a barely touched plate of lo mein noodles before her. The two women made eye contact; the blonde quickly dropped her gaze. 

Cosima rubbed at the back of her neck and smiled slowly. "You can't blame us for being cautious."

"When you have to be cautious with an officer of the law, you've got a problem."

"I know," Cosima huffed. "That's what I've been trying to tell you."

"Answer me this: Who are you?" He paused. "What are you?"

Cosima gazed at him narrowly over the rim of her glasses. "Give me your best guess, Detective."

The word leapt to his lips, too ridiculous. He scoffed.

"Go ahead," Cosima said slowly. "You can say it."

Art shook his head. "You're kidding me."

"Beth believed it. Beth believed it enough to go on a search. Then she had no choice but to believe it when she found me."

"Clones?" Art hissed. "You expect me to believe that you and Beth and Sarah and—" He cut himself off. One of Cosima's eyebrows twitched. "That there are maybe others and you're all clones?"

"How many of us do you have to see before you believe it?" Cosima replied. There was a tired quality in her tone.

Art shook his head. "No. There's no way."

Cosima sighed and then started to sputter. She snatched up the napkin nearest her and sent utensils clattering across the table in her haste to cover her mouth. Within a few seconds the coughing fit passed, but she kept the napkin pressed to the lower half of her face, wiped discreetly at her lips, and balled the napkin within a fist. With her free hand she picked up her glass of water and sipped gingerly, breathing heavily through her nostrils. 

"You okay?" Art asked, peering closely at her watery eyes.

"Yeah, yeah." Cosima placed the glass down and waved her hand, then went about retrieving utensils and laying them straight. "Coming down with a cold."

"Clones get sick?" Art asked teasingly. A tic or grimace tugged at Cosima's features.

"We're human, Detective."

"You really think you're clones."

"I don't think, I know," Cosima declared flatly. "I've seen our DNA. I'm here because I'm probably the one who can answer most of your questions." She cleared her throat. "Can we trust you?"

"This is crazy."

"Yeah, Beth thought so, too. We all did."

"If I hadn't seen you with my own eyes . . ."

"I know."

Art shook his head slowly. "I don't know what you want from me."

Cosima licked her dry lips. "Well, first I need you to believe what I say. Just in case—just in case we won't be around to get this story out. After that, maybe you can help us with a little detective work."

"You mean outside of official channels." Art scanned Cosima's intent gaze, saw a flash in her gaze that tricked his mind for a moment into seeing Beth. "That's what Beth was doing. For weeks. For months?"

Cosima kept silent.

 _Why didn't she tell me?_ , he almost asked but didn't. He sighed, rubbed at his head.

"I can't hear this on an empty stomach." He indicated the menu with a jerk of his head. "You gonna order something?"

Cosima looked down at the menu with bewilderment.

"And are you going to invite blondie over or not?"

"Uh," Cosima stumbled. "Maybe we shouldn't . . . talk about this here?"

"Alright, we'll get it to go," Art concurred. "Where we going?"

Cosime rubbed at the tabletop with a finger. "We'll be in contact. I wanted you to see my face and to see if you'd be amenable. But we can't talk today. Tomorrow maybe, or the day after. Someplace more private. Would that be okay?"

Art regarded Cosima cynically. "Clones."

"You'll see," Cosima said lowly, making to stand. She surreptitiously stuffed the napkin still clutched in her fist into a pocket of her coat and held out her other hand to Art. "It was nice meeting you, Detective Bell."

After a moment's consideration, he grasped her hand. Her handshake wasn't as firm as Beth's. "Not sure I can say the same. Cosima."

"I'll contact you."

"I'm going to want the whole story," Art warned her.

"I'll tell you as much of it as I can. But I don't even know the whole story, Detective. I'm sort of hoping you can help us with that."

"You're really not Sarah," Art observed dryly.

"Not Beth either," Cosima said sadly. "I'm sorry."

"Aren't we all?" Art muttered. "I'll be waiting. This time."

Cosima nodded. "Until then."

As she spoke, the blonde woman bustled past the table, head bowed, bound determinedly for the exit. Art noted her passing with a sharp eye; when he turned back to Cosima, she was wearing a wry smile.

"Bye, Detective."

Art nodded and Cosima turned away briskly, sweeping toward the door, a red beacon he watched until she met up with the blonde at a waiting taxi and they both ducked inside. Then the waiter reappeared, confused, and Art ordered something small, not thinking about how often he and Beth had ordered meals here, processed cases, unwound over beef and broccoli and egg drop soup. Trying to not think much about anything, but even here his mind betrayed him, turning back the weeks and beginning to suss out the signs, the gaps in Beth's behavior and her disappearances, lingering on the faces, all of them the same, all of the women different. 

Clones. 

(And maybe for one wild moment he wondered if it was really his partner who'd stepped into the train that day. Maybe the corpse in the morgue was another woman with the same face. But it was a crazy thought. Almost as crazy as clones.)


	11. Your Argument is Invalid (Cophine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> November 24, 2013

When tempers flared and words escalated, it frequently came to this, didn't it? Each of them clinging to the conviction she was right, assured in her logic, confident in her intelligence and reasoning. And with their ballooning anger and impatience, every space seemed to contract in size, too small to contain them both, this time Delphine on her feet and pacing, while Cosima reclined seated, rooted in security. 

It often came to this, too:

"It's not like I can just forget that you were sent to monitor me."

" _No_ ," Delphine snapped, whirling on a heel just as sharply to stab a finger at Cosima. "You don't get to keep using that." 

Cosima spread her hands. "Why not, it's the truth!"

"That particular fact, yes," Delphine conceded, diction short and clipped. Tight lines of cold rage heightened the sharpness and brightness of her eyes as she advanced toward Cosima, dredging up words with controlled effort. "But you always conveniently forget that it was _you_ who approached me, _you_ who initiated contact, _you_ —" Delphine stormed into Cosima's space, looming over the brunette's seated figure, "who kissed me first."

Jaw clenched and grinding, Cosima gazed up at Delphine—not quite glaring, feeling the sting of Delphine's accusation upon her cheeks as a spreading heat. The Frenchwoman stood, heaving breaths through her nose, face a mask of calm intensity, features animated but just short of furious, just—

Delphine's fingertips fell cold upon Cosima's forearm, unexpected. The brunette jumped. She sat up straighter as Delphine dragged her fingers down toward her wrist, then seized her hand, not ungently, but not tender either.

"Let us not pretend," Delphine intoned lowly and with bridled intensity, eyes flashing and smoldering, so that Cosima's diaphragm hiccuped and her blood leapt into a gallop, "that you didn't know—" 

Delphine stepped closer. 

"—exactly—" 

Pulled on Cosima's hand. 

"—what—" 

Guided and lay Cosima's hand over the zipper of her jeans, the warmth and softness of the denim drawing Cosima's gaze flickering down and back up to Delphine's level stare. 

"—you—" 

And trapped Cosima against her, flattening Cosima's hand by pressing down atop it with her own, exerting just enough force that their joined touch stutter-slipped lower. 

"—wanted."

Cosima swallowed.

Delphine arched an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Y-yeah," Cosima stammered.

"Good."


	12. Variations on a Question (Cophine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> January 25, 2014

"Did it hurt?" Delphine asked, laying her hand upon Cosima's forearm and dragging the pads of her fingertips toward the conjunction of vessels, bones, and muscle in the fine wrist, as if her touch were the wind blowing the inky dandelion seeds across Cosima's fair skin. With her eyes Cosima tracked her movements, quiet, breath held, and waited for Delphine to look up.

Their gazes met. Cosima smiled. Shrugged. 

"Not enough to stop me from getting another one."

/ 

"Did it hurt?" Cosima cooed, grinning up at her far too mischievously for Delphine to feel easy, looking somehow more dubious lying on the bed upon her stomach, propped up on her forearms, snuggled close and triggering synapses all along the line and curve of Delphine's side, appearing every bit intent on distracting Delphine from the laptop open and occupying her lap.

"Did what hurt?" Delphine asked mildly.

Cosima's grin widened. "When you fell from heaven."

"That's terrible," Delphine groaned before she could stop herself, as surely as she couldn't repress the smile that conquered her lips or the pang and glow that blossomed hot and pervasive through her chest or the flutter and clench of her gut when Cosima smiled up at her with eyes soft and bright with triumph and contentment, expression so sincere and earnest that Delphine had to briefly duck her head and look away.

/

"Does it hurt?" Delphine whispered, rubbing circles upon the hunched back, its muscles stretched taut and vertebrae and scapulas jutting stark beneath her spiraling passes, everything tinted pale in the weak washroom light, nothing moreso than Cosima's face bent over the sink, red-speckled lips parted for oxygen to wheeze in and carbon dioxide to gust out of heaving, laboring lungs.

Cosima shook her head. "No," she gasped when her breaths had calmed. "No, I'm okay."

Delphine could only nod, her palm traversing Cosima's back in patterns again and again and again, careful to school her expression, mindful not to probe further. Not yet.

/

"Would it hurt?" Delphine all but demanded, the jut of her chin probably too defiant, her posture ramrod straight and granting her the unfair unadvantage of her height, all too likely lending her a mien of confrontation. 

"Wot?" Sarah Manning scoffed. "Trying to con Leekie or trusting you? Look, I can't tell Cosima what she should do," Darkness hooded Sarah's gaze; menace laced her tone and cloaked the finger that stabbed through the air in Delphine's direction, "but if you double-cross us or get Cosima hurt--I'll put a bullet in you myself."

At Sarah's words, under the weight of her glare, Delphine didn't flinch, didn't balk. But behind her stony veneer flashed a bolt of realization, a thought as clear as lightning: If either of those outcomes came to pass, she wondered if she wouldn't be asking Sarah to do exactly what she had promised.

/

"Will it hurt?" Delphine inquired in a voice too hushed to come across as clinical or professional or not at all entangled with the woman on the other side of the glass being rolled into the belly of the MRI machine.

"Well," Aldous Leekie intoned, "we're still running tests, trying to determine what's causing the problem, so we're still mostly at the diagnostic stage. Once we isolate the cause, we can start formulating treatment. Though who's to say that the cure won't be worse than the disease." He turned his head minutely and cocked an eyebrow at Delphine. "Eh?"

Delphine stared resolutely ahead, through her own faintly troubled reflection in the glass, though all she wanted to do was wrap her arms tightly around herself, breathe in deeply, and trap the tremors and pulses of anxiety that his words conjured trembling into her racing heart, as if an act of physical restraint could confine and ease the nausea rising in her stomach. But Delphine didn't dare. Not here. Not beneath the scrutiny of Aldous Leekie. 

From out of the corner of her eye, Delphine wondered if she discerned a smile.

/

"Did it hurt?" Cosima slurred, sleepiness swallowing most of the clarity and audibility of her speech, the rest distorted through the listlessness of long research hours, innumerable blood samples drawn, the tentative and experimental substances injected and imbibed and dripped into her compact body. With a finger Cosima flicked at a spot upon Delphine's chest, eyes nearly crossed as she tried to focus on the aberration too close to where her head rested. Pinned beneath her interlocutor, Delphine craned her head to see what Cosima had indicated and smiled, the effort almost as wearied as Cosima's movements.

"Yes," she said simply, softly, running her fingers through the small hairs of Cosima's nape.

"Someone tried to hit your heart?" Cosima murmured.

Delphine chuckled, unsure if it was Cosima or exhaustion and drugs questioning her. "They had very bad aim, then."

"Mm," Cosima agreed in a sigh, eyes slipping shut. "They did. Not me. I know where the heart is." She tapped a finger above Delphine's heart to prove her point. "I wouldn't miss." 

"No," Delphine concurred lowly, uncertain if her heart beat quicker, faster, louder. "You didn't."

"And I wouldn't hurt you," Cosima exhaled in a near-whisper, slumber dragging her down.

"Yes," Delphine assured the brunette's fading consciousness, "you wouldn't want to."

No reply answered her. But even so a part of Delpine must have been waiting for one. Sleep was a long time in coming. When it came, Delphine clung to one last thought: 

That she might dream of Cosima; that nothing would hurt.


	13. WORMS! (Cosima, Delphine, Clone Club)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oyesiam1 told me, "Let me tell you, that you might be able to write about a story about a day of a rainworm doing nothing at all and it still would pull me in." So I wrote a silly thing.
> 
> January 8, 2014

"Oh, Oscar, Gemma," Alison Hendrix exclaimed, stepping toward the open kitchen door, "you’re filthy!"

Standing on the other side of the kitchen island and having been abandoned mid-conversation, Delphine took in the sight of the two Hendrix children, who, at the tone of admonishment in their mother’s voice, had paused in the doorway. Dark patches stained their shirts and jeans, especially pronounced around their knees where the green of grass stains added an extra sprinkle of color.

"It’s just dirt, Mom," Oscar said, stepping closer to his little sister, a hand drifting toward her as if to corral her at a moment’s notice. "Aunt Cosima was showing us stuff in the garden."

"Aunt Cosima" materialized behind them, grinning, herding Kira ahead of her. Sarah’s child preceded her dreadlocked "aunt" slowly, attention focused on her hands curled cupped around each other and cradled against her tummy, so that Cosima had to correct her course with little pats and pushes.

"Tell your mom what we found," Cosima prodded the kids, glancing from Kira to Gemma and Oscar.

"WORMS!" exclaimed Gemma excitedly, thrusting dirt-encrusted hands over her head in exultation. Alison’s face froze in a rictus of horror.

"You touched them?" Alison said hesitantly. Delphine knew full well what the answer would be.

"They’re not scary at all, Mommy!" Gemma declared. "They look gross and wriggly, but Aunt Cosima showed us how to pick them up carefully! They don’t bite or anything."

"We put them back," Oscar said hurriedly.

Cosima leaned against the door frame, having successfully maneuvered Kira through it. The small child continued ahead alone and unattended. With barely a glance, she navigated around the group that had congregated around the door and slipped through the kitchen on quiet feet. Delphine watched her make a slow, deliberate journey for the living room, toward the murmur of Sarah’s and Felix’s voices. Alison didn’t even note her passage, intent on her own two children. She stood looming over them with hands on her hips, frowning.

Delphine turned back to the tableau to see Cosima scanning Alison’s expression. "Tell your mom why the worms are important and why we left them in the dirt."

"They put air in the dirt!" Gemma squealed.

"They aerate the soil. And loosen and mix it with stuff that’s good for plants," Oscar amended, not really correcting his sister, but clarifying. Cosima flashed him a considering look, then glanced over to meet Delphine’s eyes. The clone scientist wiggled her eyebrows at Delphine as if to say, _Maybe we have a budding scientist on our hands._

Smiling, Delphine shook her head, rueful, warning. _Watch yourself._

Alison sighed. “That’s very nice, but let’s get cleaned up and change our clothes. Ah, ah! Take off your shoes! Leave them by the door. We’ll take care of them later. Wash your hands in the kitchen sink first and then we’ll go upstairs.” Alison glared at Cosima. “Same goes for you.”

"Yes, ma’am," Cosima murmured, not at all contrite, though remarkably not as dirty as the children. She obeyed Alison’s orders nonetheless, kicking off her boots, as Gemma and Oscar wrangled with their own footwear, sneaking smiles and giggles at each other that they thought hidden from their mother. 

Delphine didn’t move, as she hadn’t from the moment of the children’s appearance, mindful not to get caught up in guilt by association by engaging Cosima in any way that would force her to either scold or defend her science lesson. Watching Alison, Delphine had no desire to enter the purview of her sighing, head-shaking, muttering ire. Instead, thus carefully removed, Delphine managed to hear Sarah in the living room inquire, “Whatcha got, Monkey?”

A second later, Felix shouted, “Oh, yuck, no, keep it away! Sarah, _Sarah_ , no! _No!_ I said no! Keep it away from me!”

"Aw, Fe, c’mon! Kira brought you a present! Right, Monkey? You wanted to show Uncle Fe, right?"

" _Get away!_ "

Alison dashed for the living room, murmuring “Oh no, oh no, oh no” as peals of laughter and howls spilled through the open partition. Delphine raised an eyebrow at Cosima.

Cosima shrugged. “Maybe we didn’t put one back.”


	14. Hit Snooze (Cophine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [What if Delphine weren't a morning person.](http://morningmightcomebyaccident.tumblr.com/post/74627632615/cosima-discovers-delphine-isnt-a-morning-person)
> 
> January 28, 2014

It usually began like this, a hand slipping across her hip, her belly, sometimes a little cool and sending a shiver across her skin, as Cosima sidled up against her and sought out patches of bare skin with her lips, finding her shoulder, her neck, the line of her jaw. Sleepy, but growing wakeful by increments, no longer startled or disoriented by the roaming touch snatching her from dreams, Delphine answered with little moans, protests but not really, and sometimes Cosima would laugh low in her throat, just a little, not at all deterred.

Today though, not completely conscious, Delphine murmured, "You're slow today." 

Cosima stopped.

There was a moment of silence.

"Have you been, like, timing me?" Cosima asked.

"No, not timing," Delphine chided her, reaching up and finding Cosima's shoulder. Cosima looked at her, flabbergasted, though Delphine had yet to open her eyes. "Observing. You usually start between the second and third alarms. Today you waited until almost the fourth. Did you stay up late?"

". . . Seriously?" Cosima intoned.

Delphine blinked into clarity of vision and shifted as best she could to glimpse Cosima's frowny face. "Are you upset?"

The pout didn't abate.

"I'm a scientist," Delphine said. "And you have your habits. I notice." 

Cosima pouted harder.

Delphine reached up and tentatively touched Cosima's cheek. "Don't be upset."

"I'm trying really hard to be upset," Cosima declared, "and to not find this in some way hot."

When the words worked through Delphine's waking consciousness, she smiled and pressed a small kiss to Cosima's unyielding mouth. The stubbornness fixated Delphine's attention to the stern line of Cosima's lips, which she traced with a finger. "You know, I am very grateful for your help in the mornings. It's gotten much easier to get up. I hear the second alarm and it tells me to expect you. Sometimes I lie wondering if you will be very, very eager or if you will be very, very cruel and leave me . . . wanting you all day."

Cosima's frown wavered and then deepened.

Delphine dragged her fingertips along Cosima's jawline. "But always I wake up very, very happy."

The bullish dash twitched. Delphine leaned over and kissed those taut lips again, at the corner of Cosima's mouth, then again at the other corner when Cosima didn't respond, and again, laughing, until Cosima intercepted her with a peck and broke away smiling.

"Okay, okay, stop," Cosima grumbled.

"Mmm," Delphine groaned, "unfortunately I have to, since I have to get up soon. But shall I help you get back to bed first?"

Cosima smirked. "Obvs. But your alarm is going to go off again in less than fifteen minutes."

"Then I won't waste time," Delphine whispered and smiled promisingly as she drew Cosima close.


	15. Mirror, Mirror (Rachel, Cosima)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had so many hopes and wishes for how Cosima Niehaus and Rachel Duncan would be compared and contrasted.
> 
> January 30, 2014

"How quaint," Rachel Duncan declared coolly, sitting in her chair at leisure, elbows on the armrests, legs crossed at the knees, every line and gesture—thumb and forefinger rubbing together idly, the slightest cant of her head—choreography, stillness laid atop stillness. Sarah sprawled, but was always coiled to pounce. Alison perched with the aspiration of finishing school, but buzzed within her skin, movements jerky with restrained energy. Not Rachel. Rachel wore a wholly different brand of control. Confidence. Self-assurance. It appeared like boredom, but no one bored had a gaze so hawk-like.

Cosima shifted in her seat. “What?”

”You. Sitting there. Looking at me. Wondering,” Rachel droned. “‘Could I have been her?’” A smile budged Rachel’s lips, relented, retreated. “‘Could the organism designated 324B21 have been Rachel Duncan and turned out the same? Could the woman sitting across from me have been Cosima Niehaus? Would anything be different?’”

Cosima twisted and fidgeted, considering Rachel. “You don’t wonder?”

Rachel’s mouth played at a smirk. “That would be the question to end all questions, wouldn’t it? How can we know whether or not I might have been the one sitting in your place, whether or not I would have chosen to present myself exactly as you do, whether or not I would be the one enjoying the nighttime company of a beautiful French scientist.” Cosima stiffened. “Who could say if this meeting right now would be any different with our positions reversed?” Rachel’s mouth relaxed. “No, I don’t wonder.”

Cosima’s eyebrows drew together. “But—”

"What’s the point?" Rachel drawled. "We can never know."

"Yeah, but—"

"Nature versus nurture?" Rachel supplied with a glance at her manicure.

"Right, so—"

"Is your proclivity for science written in your genes so that had you been raised self-aware as a clone, would you have taken to studying yourself?" Rachel’s gaze cut to Cosima across the desk. "Maybe? Maybe not?"

Cosima drew in a breath, features pinched. 

"I’m sure you’ll think about it," Rachel said. She smiled. "Thank you, for your insights on Sarah Manning. Perhaps we’ll chat again." She unfolded her legs gracefully and stood. "Shall I have someone see you out?"

Cosima stared up at her, at the clean, crisp blouse, the pencil skirt, the severe bob, her own dreadlocked head inclined back to compensate for the extra inches of height Rachel gained in her heels.

"No, that’s okay," Cosima said slowly, pushing herself to her feet. "I can find the door."

She left the room without a handshake, without really a goodbye, feeling Rachel’s eyes following her out, all the while wondering if she could have been that poised, controlled woman.

Maybe. Maybe not.


	16. Everyday Chores (Cophine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February 27, 2014

Delphine smiled at the caress and weight of hands slipping over her hips and arms crossing around her middle, tightening and drawing close the nose that pressed into her shoulder and the body that insinuated into the rolling length of her spine, warmth all along her back.

"Hello," Delphine greeted her embracer. "Here to help me wash dishes?"

”Sink’s too small for two pairs of hands,” Cosima murmured against the back of her neck.

The yellow sponge whisked around the inside of a glass. “Are you going to wipe the table?”

The hold around her waist pincered and relaxed. “That’ll take two seconds.”

Delphine turned her head slightly to better direct her words. “Are you going to clear the bed of your books and clothes?”

"I’ll just toss all of it on the floor."

"Cosima!"

"What? I’ll clean it up tomorrow."

"Really?"

"I’ll pick it up," Cosima reassured her.

"And put it back on the bed," Delphine finished drily.

Cosima’s fingers flexed and clenched into the dips of Delphine’s waist, arms strong about the blonde when she started and wriggled, and lips flush against Delphine’s bare skin, parted in a smile that Delphine could feel as much as the low hum of laughter that buzzed and vibrated all through Cosima’s torso and into Delphine’s along every point they touched.

"Yeah. So?"

Shaking her head, Delphine swatted lightly at Cosima’s forearm with a hand covered in suds, leaving bubbly droplets and a dripping trail that Cosima, twisting and pulling, promptly wiped dry on Delphine’s shirt.

"Cosima!" Delphine groaned, examining the damage to her tank top.

"Whaaaaat? You got me wet!"

The declaration hung in the air, coaxing a small, amused and exasperated smile from Delphine’s lips. She shook her head and rinsed plates. “Have you checked the mail?”

Cosima burrowed her face into the crook between Delphine’s neck and shoulder and spoke into her flesh. “Tomorrow.”

Delphine sighed and shut off the faucet. “Do you plan to do anything today?”

Cosima’s breath warm across her skin was her immediate answer. “This,” Cosima whispered. “Hold you. Argue with you. Tomorrow, too, and the day after that, and all the days after if I can.”

Delphine breathed. She dried her hands on a towel, flung it aside, and, slowly, gently, laid one hand atop Cosima’s, curling her fingers around the knuckles, feeling the shape of the bones that gripped at her, that she clenched, squeezed, and rubbed.

"Okay," she said. "But you’ll have to do those other things once in a while too."

Cosima laughed, tugging, leaning in close, and pressed her lips briefly to Delphine’s shoulder. “Deal.”


	17. Status Update (Delphine, Leekie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have no memory of writing this.
> 
> March 2, 2014

“Delphine.”

The utterance of her name close by shattered Delphine’s absorption in the microscopic theater beneath her eye, piercing the quiet of her concentration. She whirled around, straightening, one hand darting up to cover her heart, which skipped a beat and then another in recognition of the figure that faced her. 

Aldous Leekie smiled at her genially. 

“Dr. Leekie,” she named him. His eyebrows hitched a fractional tick at her address, mouth still with tension, before deepening at the corners. His gaze brightened, traversed her face, looking at his leisure.

“Hello, Delphine,” he greeted her belatedly, superfluously, lightly and pleasantly in his sing-song way. “It’s been a while. Getting you alone has been difficult.”

“Yes,” Delphine admitted, hesitant. “Well–”

“No need to explain,” Leekie cut her off with cheeriness, generosity coloring his words and infusing his expression. “Considering the circumstances, it’s perfectly understandable. You’ve been busy. In fact,” he continued, head canting at a slight angle as he raised a hand, slowly, calculatedly, to just below the level of Delphine’s chin. She tensed in anticipation of his touch, but his fingertips hovered short of contact with her skin and instead cut across through the air to meet with the curtain of her hair. The tension slithered into every fiber of muscle and gripped Delphine in rigid stillness as her hair lifted from her neck, incrementally, but enough for Leekie’s eyes to slip across her skin, to find their mark, _the_ mark, a sort of fading yellowish green that had been a prominent mottled purple a few days before, “as I understand,” Delphine held her breath, held at length her thoughts, held back the impulse to pull away, “you should be commended for your service.”

Leekie’s smile never wavered, but his eyes cut up sharply to meet hers. He dropped his hand. Her hair fell back into place.

Delphine swallowed–nothing. Her throat convulsed. She nearly gagged, throat so dry that no words could have sounded from the cords, not a denial, not an acknowledgement, not a (sarcastic, dry, or meek) “thank you.”

Leekie’s regard flattened. 

“Where are you with Cosima?” he asked when Delphine had not found a response. “Closer, I take it?”

“Yes,” Delphine managed.

“Good,” he said, blunt. “It’s important–very important–that she trusts you. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she responded, quietly.

Leekie studied her, his height giving him the air of distance. “You understand that it’s in her best interests that we know everything?”

Delphine hesitated–and would have answered too quickly otherwise. She saw herself in Leekie’s consideration and knew it. “Yes.”

“Then you understand what’s expected of you?”

“Yes,” Delphine answered more coolly.

Leekie nodded. “Is there anything I should know?”

Delphine shook her head. “She has accepted the terms of employment you offered her.”

“Good. And if anything should change, I expect you to apprise me immediately.”

“Yes, Dr. Leekie,” she said, bowing her head meekly. His fingers were beneath her chin in a flash, raising her head back up.

“Don’t forget her place. Don’t forget yours. Nothing has changed.” His slid the pad of his thumb across her lips, considering, but nothing more. “We’ll talk again soon. I’ll expect a more detailed report, then.”

He released her, turned away, and left, leaving Delphine alone, dismissed, and warned.

Delphine raised her fingers to her neck and covered the bruise, wondering whom she was fooling, contemplating ownership written on the body, knowing loyalty wasn’t a thing seized but given, for the first time conscious that she would have to choose and choose and choose and choose again.

That she would.

That she had.

Delphine gathered herself and then put her eye once again to the microscope.


	18. Courtesy Visit (Rachel, Delphine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in the vague future and before S2 clarified that Delphine is definitely an MD and before the possibilities of Cosima, Rachel, and Delphine becoming entangled sailed off into the horizon.
> 
> March 5, 2014

“Alone today?” Rachel asked, tone laced with its perpetual hint of archness. Legs crossed at the knee, baggy straight-legged pants concealing the shapely contours of her legs and her feet ensconced in uninspired boots, she nonetheless sat in the bareback metal chair as if it were a high-end ergonomic build. As always her hair remained carefully trimmed and coiffed, blonde and not showing at the roots. How she maintained it was beyond Delphine. “Does that mean Cosima is indisposed?”

Delphine slipped into the empty chair across the table, eyes fixed briefly on the bare tabletop. She always felt a frisson of discomfort, at disadvantage, when they had Rachel waiting for her rather than vice versa, when she had time to set her materials out, when she could watch Rachel be ushered in by the uniformed officers and make the trek escorted from door to seat.

She wondered if Rachel felt the same way.

“Hello, Rachel,” Delphine said evenly, avoiding the questions posed to her. Rachel’s lips twitched.

“ _Bonjour_ , Delphine,” she said. Her accent was excellent.

“How are you?” Delphine asked in English. “How are you feeling?”

Rachel head tilted minutely. “Why don’t you tell me, Dr. Cormier. Unless your doctorate isn’t sufficient enough to decipher my blood work without an accompanying medical license.”

With deliberation Delphine removed folders and documents from her briefcase and set them one beside the other in front of her.

“I take it by your show of urgency that I’m not dying,” Rachel noted. “No more quickly than the average soul, anyway. Though it should be considered a type of stultifying death to be locked up in here.” Her eyes settled on the papers neatly arrayed. “You didn’t mention how Cosima is doing.”

“She’s fine,” Delphine said softly. She folded her hands and rested them atop a closed folder. “As are you, according to your latest test results. No indications of illness have appeared.”

“You come all this way to tell me that.” Rachel’s lips twitched again. “Not that it’s unappreciated.”

A thank you, as close to a direct one that she would ever get out of Rachel Duncan.

“And how are you?” Rachel asked, voice growing hushed.

Delphine met and held Rachel’s gaze. “I’m fine.”

They engaged in a staring contest that ended in Rachel’s lips twisting into a small smile. “Not tired of playing nurse? Not tired of playing second fiddle?”

“It’s not like that,” Delphine said with steely evenness.

“It is,” Rachel said quietly. She moved with calculated slowness, so that Delphine could track her movements, so that the guards could see that she wasn’t mounting an assault. Her hand reached across the table and brushed a finger across the back of Delphine’s knuckles. Delphine didn’t flinch, didn’t move, didn’t look. “But you tell yourself that it’s fine. Because she’s so brilliant. And beautiful. And loving.”

“No touching,” the guard barked and Rachel withdrew her touch unhurriedly, resettling leisurely in her seat.

“Does she love you?” Rachel asked.

“She loves you,” Delphine declared promptly.

In a flash Rachel’s features contorted, bitterness stark upon her pale features, her unadorned lips, her brutally framed face, and then smoothed. “She loves the science, the mystery of us, the sense of higher purpose.”

“She cares for you,” Delphine insisted. “She cares for all of you.”

Rachel’s regard turned icy. “And you? Do you care?”

“I’m here, am I not?” Delphine said.

The smile returned, mocking now. “Does she know, dear Cosima, about your pragmatism? Does she know that you’ll hang onto her for as long and as high as she can take you—and that then, when you’re ready to move onto the next stepping stone, you’ll let her go?”

Delphine shook her head. “You think you know me—you think you know everyone—but you don’t. Cosima included.”

The fine brow darkened. “What does she have that I don’t? Aren’t we all the same, she and I and all our lovely identical sisters?”

“You don’t believe that yourself,” Delphine said in a low voice tinged with sorrow. “You know you’re not the same.”

“I would have been kinder to you than Aldous,” Rachel said flippantly.

“You didn’t want me,” Delphine pointed out.

Rachel smirked. “What do you know?”

Delphine’s gut clenched. “You still don’t want me.” She sat up straighter. “You only came after me to get at Cosima. Or to take from her something you didn’t have.”

Rachel turned away, only her head moving, the smirk still in place. “And hurt Cosima? What do you know?” Eyes shifting, she looked back at Delphine. “You stare at our blood hour after hour, trying to find secrets written in our genes, but what do you know?”

Delphine breathed in counted measure. One, two, three in. One, two, three out. She licked her lips. “Cosima sends her regards. She said to tell you she would come next time.”

The woman across the table peered at her steadily and then swept her attention and focus away. “Give her my thanks for the books and her letters. Tell her I look forward to seeing her.”

Delphine gathered up her things, all of the folders unopened and the documents not referenced, and stowed them back in her briefcase. She stood and slung the strap over her shoulder.

“Goodbye, Rachel,” she said.

Imperceptibly Rachel nodded, gaze stonily cast on some horizon far off. “Come back soon.”

Delphine contemplated the woman who had at one time felt no hesitation to insinuate herself into her personal space, to come up behind her and speak softly into her ear, of mundane things, of business, of stray observations, of veiled threats in an unvarying even tone, but who radiated heat in the close proximity, who presumed to brush her hair off her cheek, who had once outright propositioned her, punctuating her offer with a smug “Why not? I know you’re curious. How different could we all be?”

She remembered, too, once catching the gaze watching her from across the room, the glimpse of unexpected softness, the curl of not-quite-lust, not-quite-desire, not-quite-longing, but an indistinguishable want, almost as if unformed, inchoate.

“We will,” Delphine said shortly, nodding though unseen. With a sharp turn, she strode for the door, the heels of her boots loud on the floor.

Rachel didn’t watch her go. Delphine didn’t glance back.


	19. Small Amusements, Small Pleasures (Cosima, Rachel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March 6, 2014

"No, but, like, we're so amazing," Cosima said, both hands raised and chopping the air on the last word.

"I agree," Rachel Duncan concurred mildly, eyes half-lidded in observation, lips suggesting the contemplation of a smile.

"No, no," Cosima insisted with a shake of her head, dreads dangling, "it's like we've never had this degree of control and this scope of scrutiny and, and, and ability to draw comparisons on so many levels. That we even have the technology to create a, a, a sample pool of so many genetically identical persons is—it's crazy." 

"I know," Rachel assured her.

"Yeah, but like—this project was undertaken with purpose," Cosima expounded. "We—we have a purpose."

Rachel hummed.

Cosima studied her companion's expression, reserved and neutral to her inspection. "You don't care, do you?"

Rachel took a sharp, short breath, erect posture straightening a degree farther. "I understand the significance. Our significance." Her eyes glinted, sharp and bright. "I've read the same papers, the same studies, the same hypotheses and theories that you have, after all."

Cosima absorbed her words, the couched admonishment. "But you don't care."

Rachel assessed Cosima with her eyes, a scan that played lightly across features that echoed hers, if framed and marked differently—the glasses, the nose ring, the eyeliner dark and liberally applied. "I don't care in the way that you do, no. But that needn't serve as an indication that I don't care." Her lips quirked. "And isn't that just another notable factor on the scale, that I should have a different notion of care from you?"

The scientist's head tilted. "Do you believe in the soul?"

Rachel's eyebrows dipped, perhaps the first time her face had betrayed surprise. "What?"

Cosima shrugged. "Just something I've wondered. I've wanted to ask Alison her opinion on our souls, but I don't think it's a topic she'd want to discuss. Not sober, anyway."

Rachel smirked, order reasserting dominion across the smooth planes of her cheeks. "You're one to talk. I could smell the marijuana on you a mile off."

Cosima grinned. "Don't knock it 'til you try it."

"Who says I haven't?" Rachel parried without inflection. But her eyes conveyed amusement. Cosima's grin deepened.

"Dude, you've got to hook me up. I don't have a supplier here."

Rachel chuckled, low and brief. "That can be arranged."

Cosima perked up. "Seriously?"

A bare lift and fall of shoulders answered Cosima. "Yes."

"Uh." Cosima eyed the other woman, not sure if she was being teased. "In that case, yes. Please."

Rachel chuckled again, no more than a huff. Cosima smiled back, the effort hesitant.

"So, um," Cosima mustered on, "if you're offering to do favors, can I, uh, ask you to do another one for me?"

Rachel lifted one sculpted eyebrow as prompt.

"Could you," Cosima said slowly, "stop hitting on Delphine?"

Not a muscle twitched in the executive's face.

"She's not in a position where she can ask herself—" Cosima began.

"It bothers you?" Rachel interjected.

"—and, it, uh, yeah, a little," Cosima articulated lamely as Rachel's question derailed her appeal.

"She's very beautiful," Rachel remarked offhandedly.

"Yeah," Cosima agreed. She fidgeted in her seat.

"Have you seen how she freezes and looks me in the eye when I approach her, poised as if to say something, and then looks away?" Rachel continued blithely.

"Uh." Cosima swallowed. "No?"

"She does," Rachel told her matter-of-factly, observing Cosima abstractedly.

Cosima's lips mashed in silent protest. Her eyes darted to Rachel's face, away, back again. 

A slow smile curved Rachel's lips. "You want me to give this up?"

Cosima started. "What?"

Rachel leaned toward her across the scant space that separated their adjacent chairs, eyes finding, holding, and drilling into Cosima's, which reflected the same shades and threw back varying subtleties. "Who says that the lovely, beautiful Dr. Cormier interests me?" She reached out with one manicured hand and slipped her fingers beneath Cosima's chin, sliding the soft pads of her fingertips along its strong line. "Or just her?"

The touch paralyzed Cosima. Then she jerked back, disengaging, putting space between herself and the fingers that hovered for a moment in the emptiness between them. Her face groped for a reaction, attempting first an uncertain smile, humor streaking her gaze. The tentative mirth faded quickly into doubt and sobriety, Cosima's pupils flitting back and forth between those of Rachel's steady scrutiny.

Rachel chuckled. 

That little laugh. The sound wormed into Cosima. After a second, Cosima echoed her, a sound that struggled halting out of her throat, pushed out by lungs that threatened at any moment to betray her. 

Assessment lightening, Rachel surveyed Cosima again before checking her watch.

"I have a meeting in ten minutes," she declared, "and I believe Dr. Cormier is waiting for you."

"Uh. Yeah." Cosima nodded, for once not rankled by the abrupt dismissal. "Yeah."

"Another time?" Rachel asked, getting smoothly to her feet, balanced effortlessly on her heels.

Cosima looked up at her. "Yeah."

Rachel touched her shoulder, a press of her fingers, fleeting. "Until next time."

"Next time," Cosima parroted in a daze.

Rachel smiled—or smirked—and strode leisurely away. Cosima stared after her. She touched her chin. Pondering the notion of next time. If there would be a next time. If she wanted a next time. Then—

"Shit."

—Cosima realized Rachel hadn't agreed to stop hitting on Delphine. 

To distract herself Cosima checked her watch.

"Shit!"

She was late. She and Delphine had agreed to meet five minutes ago. Bolting out of her chair, Cosima allowed herself a final thought on her odd conversation with Rachel Duncan: _I wonder if she was serious about the pot._

A small thrill zipped down her spine. 

She'd find out.


	20. The Only Game Worth Playing (Rachel, Delphine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I clearly went through a period of exploring Rachel-Cosima-Delphine triangulation dynamics.
> 
> March 6, 2014

The hand slipped between her shoulder blades, light in pressure, but confident in the contact, in a right to be exactly where it lay.

"You've sampled so many of our offerings here at DYAD, haven't you?" the voice said lowly into her ear. "What's the harm in testing another?"

"You're not her," Delphine forced through her jaw, tense and clenched, her tone so soft she feared she couldn't be heard.

"She's not Aldous. And he is your employer. And she is your subject. Don't play this game, Dr. Cormier," the voice chided. "Your excuses are flimsy. You will lose."

Delphine stared steadfastly ahead though her senses strained to detect the motion of the molecules occupying the space behind her, unseen but felt, perhaps only in a phantom way, her imagination wild. "What's your game?"

From that place emanated a sharp exhalation, like a laugh. "The only one worth playing." Fingers on her neck, sweeping back her hair, the lab air resting cool on her exposed skin. "The game of self-satisfaction."

"Yours, of course," Delphine accused.

"I think you will find yourself very satisfied in my hands." Smugness lent the words volume, more than a whisper now—a promise.

Delphine contemplated it. She couldn't help it. Her mind leapt, chasing the question, drawing the answer. It was just how her thoughts worked. 

And there were so many questions. And so many unplumbed answers.

Delphine closed her eyes. Her lips parted.

"Consider your answer very carefully," the voice warned her. The hand pressed into the small of her back and with each word Delphine imagined she felt the brush of a chin against her shoulder.

Delphine bowed her head. "You'll have to excuse me, Ms. Duncan. I have a lot of work tonight."

There was stillness, the stillness of breaths held, of time grinding slowly toward the next second, of geography shifting, borders being drawn.

The touch withdrew and with it the presence at her back.

"I see," Rachel Duncan said airily, in a normal tone. "If that's the case, I'll leave you to it, Doctor." A pause interjected. "But take some time to consider my offer. I think you'll come to see its merits. But don't dawdle too long; my generosity doesn't know infinite patience." Delphine kept her silence. "Good night, Doctor."

Delphine glanced quickly over her shoulder with a nod. "Good night. Ms. Duncan."

A pause. Then heels clicking and clacking against the floor. retreating, receding, leaving.

Delphine breathed and got no more work done that night.


	21. Cophine PWP

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for Mary.
> 
> March 8, 2014

Cosima supposed she envisioned herself—maybe especially, maybe particularly with Delphine—as a top, if only because it put a grin on her face and a flutter in her gut and a thrill down her spine to slide up Delphine's body, to insinuate her thigh between Delphine's legs, to feel the tension and hesitation and shyness give way to welcome then to need then to desperation as she fit their bodies together, insistent to occupy every curve and contour that Delphine surrendered, to accommodate every writhe and twist of Delphine's supple form arching and yearning, to hear the gasp and hitch of every restrained breath and moan build to a force greater than inhibition and draw out sometimes long, sometimes sharp sometimes strangled, to look into that lovely face and watch it clench and strain to the rhythm of her touch, which Delphine rose and rocked to meet and match and direct, more and more insistent, and trusting, so trusting, so vulnerable, when pushed to the edge and over it and through it, Cosima's name on her lips and Cosima's lips on her neck and Delphine in Cosima's hands that knew to ease or rile back up.

Cosima wouldn't deny that she liked all that.

But there was something to be said about the sight of Delphine sliding her rings off her elegant fingers, setting the jewelry aside on the night stand, and forcing Cosima onto her back with the imminence of her body, encroaching upon hands and knees, but out of reach, out of direct contact, hovering above Cosima's, heralded by features sharp with intent. Or how first contact came in a kiss, Delphine's mouth descending upon Cosima's, and followed with movements slow to explore out of mixed parts uncertainty, curiosity, and fascination, marking Delphine as a neophyte to the process and to Cosima's body but one eager to learn and examine and improve—deftly, adroitly, adeptly.

There was something to be said about how Delphine spewed French hotly and lowly into her ear when Cosima let loose a rolling growl. Or how when Cosima first raked her back with fingers curled and short nails biting Delphine gasped and jerked up and into her hard, as Cosima had wanted, and then later assured her that her back didn't hurt though the scratches stood out upon the fair skin in angry red welts that were warm to Cosima's apologetic touch. (Or how much later Delphine admitted it did hurt, a bit, in a quiet voice and with burning eyes that made Cosima sink her teeth into Delphine's shoulder the next time that elicited a hiss of commingled pain and pleasure.) 

There was definitely something to be said about the sight of Delphine making a slow trek down her torso, of her head between her thighs, hair tumbling and tickling her thighs, about the heat of her mouth upon her clit, about the ways that Delphine learned—through tried and true experimentation, repetition, and recreation—to apply her tongue to render Cosima incapable of speech. 

But there were no words, really, for the feel of Delphine's arms wrapping around her, of their bodies pressed together, cooling, legs entwined, the both of them quieted and quieting, her own heartbeat loud in her ears to fade away in the nearness of Delphine's steady breaths and the consciousness of her hands stroking, calming, upon the jut of her hip or the aberrations of her tattoos. 

Yet Cosima didn't need words in this space between them when desire leapt from skin-to-skin, where permission was granted in a glance, when everything existed and shrank to the present, the feel of Delphine against her lips, the assurance of her sigh on her skin, the press of her hand on her back, her shuddering, her trembling, her yearning for her, here where there was no top, no bottom, no spy, no subject—no words.

Just Delphine. Just Cosima.


	22. Once upon a time, in Ballpitlandia... (Fairy tale AU?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill: "ooooooooh, girl. cosima's birthday strikes me as the perfect time to do an au. something completely silly and enchanting." Possibly my favorite silliest thing I've ever written because it's unlike anything I've ever written before.
> 
> March 9, 2014

In the Great Kingdom of Ballpitlandia, there was great sighing and lamenting among the people. For though they were blessed with great fortune and a robust royal family—which boasted many daughters, all of whom were alive and well and healthy and bore uncanny resemblances to one another—the eldest among the princesses, Cosima, refused to marry and thus prevented the endowment of such felicity and prospects to her younger sisters. (Though truth be told, some of them did not mind, as Her Royal Highness Sarah could be heard to occasionally snicker about the convention of marriage and the constraints of obligations, while others felt greatly inconvenienced, such as Princess Alison and her betrothed Donnie, who grew increasingly antsy.)

The guardians assembled and confronted their strong-willed eldest and asked her, “Why do you refuse to marry?”

Cosima huffed and waved her hands. “Because arranged marriages are totes last dynasty and I won’t settle for anyone who’s less rad and smart and interesting than I am.”

To which all her family and kingdom groaned (or sniggered), for who could meet such a tall order? But word was proclaimed across the nations about Ballpitlandia’s great need and suitors flocked to the court. They came in all ages and sizes, from all backgrounds and lands, of all interests and persuasions, but yet still—“Dude, seriously?”—none of them could satisfy the princess’s exacting standards.

Until there came a duke from Neolution, a land of many technical wonders, himself a great learned figure who had heard of the Princess Cosima’s curiosity and love of knowledge and capacity for learning, especially for the sciences. (And had heard, too, of her exceptionally unusually singular family.) So he traveled far and long to Ballpitlandia’s court and he was as comfortable in the ballroom as he was in the library and before long he had secured the Princess Cosima’s interest. The people whispered. Some took heart. Some expressed dismay.

"Too old," some said.

"Too strange," said others.

"What about that hottie with him?" whispered the rest.

For ‘lo, there was a hottie with him, from the enchanting land of Spaniel, a woman surely half his age who drifted by his side. A student, a protégée, it was rumored. “They’re banging,” speculated Princess Beth. But none could say for sure. Only that the hottie could be seen always in his presence. In the ballroom when he offered the princess his arm. In the library where His Grace and Princess Cosima adjourned to discuss SCIENCE. At table, where she sat to his left when he sat at the princess’s left.

She did not seem to say much, but few could forget that “ _Enchantée._ ”

The three passed much time together and more than anyone ever before Princess Cosima invited them into her presence. So there came the day, as expected, that the Duke made his offer, declaring:

"Cosima, you have a unique perspective to offer my country and you should be on the cover of Scientific Neolution. Marry me and you'll be featured on the front page."

The court held its breath as Cosima stood up and said, “I said I wouldn’t marry anyone unless they were as rad and smart and interesting as I am. Your Grace, you are all these things, but I forgot to mention one other thing: I need someone as hot as I am, too.”

A great groan went up in the court, for now it would surely be impossible to get Princess Cosima to marry! But the Princess whirled and held a hand out to the hottie ever present by the shocked Duke’s side. “Delphine!”

Faces in the court looked around, confused. No one had known the name of the hottie before then! But the hottie straightened up, surprised and confused and a little alarmed. Named thus, she had no choice but to sally forth and stepped forward.

"Delphine," Princess Cosima repeated. "You are as rad, as smart, as interesting, and as hot as I am! Go on a date with me."

The crowd gasped (“I knew Cosima vas different,” noted a quiet voice among the sisters) but none were so bewildered as Delphine the Hottie, who said, “But I’ve never considered bisexuality for myself.”

"Give me a night," Cosima said grandly, "and I’ll make a convert out of you! Besides, don’t act like you haven’t been flirting with me the entire time."

Delphine gaped up at Princess Cosima while the court awaited her answer with bated breath. Until someone sighed and said, drolly, in her rich clipped accent, “Accept already so we don’t have to listen to any more of this claptrap.”

Delphine looked around, suddenly aware of all the expectant eyes, and then looked back to Princess Cosima, who smiled at her reassuringly.

"O-okay," she said.

And a great cheer went up! And all of Ballpitlandia rejoiced! And there was feasting and much pot passed round! For surely if Princess Cosima was intent on such a mission—and surely she would succeed—“Totes!”—then this hottie had captured her heart and they would see their princess finally married.

"Thank God," Princess Alison praised.

And the rest is, as they say, history.


	23. For Your Information (Rachel, Cosima)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for ilovemulch: "Rachel telling Cosima the nature of Delphine & Leekie's relationship"
> 
> March 11, 2014

"Hold the door, please" trailed Cosima into the empty elevator. Before her mind registered the voice, recognized the accent, or noted the unhurriedness of the tone, the request propelled the scientist scrambling for the panel of buttons and stabbing for the one at the bottom marked "OPEN DOORS." Only then with the button cool and securely depressed beneath her finger did Cosima twist around to behold the gut-clenching vision of Rachel Duncan sauntering into the waiting car.

"Thank you," Rachel said, stepping inside primly, head aslant and a slight smile upon her lips, as she spun about sharply to face the doors, centered in the car but positioned beside Cosima, her heeled feet placed close together and her hands folded loosely and resting pale upon the impeccable navy of her buttoned jacket.

"You’re welcome," Cosima responded automatically, not quite meeting her blonde doppelganger’s gaze. Rachel stood an inch taller at the moment and she always seemed to emphasize it with a deliberate tilt of her head. Cosima brushed aside the awareness and turned back to the panel—not really cramming herself into the corner, more like just casually lounging against the wall—and hit the button designated "L." "Lobby?"

"Thirteenth floor, actually," Rachel clarified as the doors rumbled and slid shut.

"This is going down," Cosima said hesitantly as the elevator car hummed around them. She pushed the button for the thirteenth floor anyway as the car shuddered, pitched them into weightlessness, and began to descend.

"Is it?" Rachel said, sounding neither concerned nor surprised, eyes rising to survey the numbers decreasing on the display panel above the doors. "Ah, well. We all make such mistakes in judgment from time to time, seeing up for down. Like your friend Delphine, for instance."

Cosima didn’t react, didn’t let her breath catch in her lungs and disturb the rhythm of her respiration, feeling that even if Rachel didn’t see it, the blonde would somehow feel it if her diaphragm so much as gave the slightest hiccup. Instead Cosima craned her neck back—leisurely, smoothly—to note what floor they were passing. They were halfway to the lobby. She didn’t have to say anything. In a few more seconds she could step off the lift, say goodbye, go on her way.

Cosima bowed her head, lifted it fractionally, eyed the statuesque figure of Rachel unmoved at the edge of her periphery.

Just a few more seconds.

"What do you mean?"

The words tumbled out tight and high, on the verge of crackling.

"Why," Rachel addressed the doors, tone light, threaded with just a hint of wonderment, brows rising and falling, "that she chose you over Aldous." Cosima’s jaw clenched. "Really, the subject over the researcher. A bit of an oversight, don’t you think? By giving herself to Aldous Dr. Cormier was set to rise very high, very quickly. But settling for you is, at best, a lateral move, if not a step down." Rachel cocked her head. "Though maybe I’m neglecting to factor in other mitigating perks—like any increase in satisfaction gained from moving from his bed to yours."

The elevator slowed, catapulting Cosima’s stomach momentarily into her throat, and stopped. The car dinged. The doors opened. Cosima stared straight ahead through the gaping maw, across the soulless hall and at the glossy closed doors of the opposing bank of elevators.

No one entered. No one disembarked.

The doors closed.

The elevator hummed and began to ascend.

Cosima stared ahead. Inhaled. Exhaled. Filled her lungs. Emptied them. Each succession in the cycle a little heavier, a little faster than the last.

The floors ticked off. Rachel observed the progression wordlessly. As still, as silent, as acknowledging as if she were alone.

Cosima’s hand clapped onto the blonde’s shoulder without warning and whipped the executive roughly around. Rachel’s lips parted, features darkening, affront crouching and promises gathering in every line of her face and shade of her irises, when Cosima slammed into her, mouth crashing onto hers, all lips and teeth and bruising force that smothered any reprimand, any sentence, any words of retribution, an assault like a scream, short and savage and piercing, that dashed the taste of blood across their tongues, of rust, of copper, of decay, that ended truncated when Cosima shoved Rachel away, lips red and expression twisted.

Rachel stumbled back, only a step, catching her balance remarkably easily on the thin stilettos. For a floor’s length they stood in that tableau, two off-kilter mirror figures on display in a box, as if posed in a diorama, an exhibition of tragedy, of comedy, of the drama illustrative of the workings of their laughing, angry experimental human gods.

Rachel straightened up, tugged discreetly at her jacket with one hand and dabbed at her lip—split, bleeding—with the other, verifying that it had been her own blood in her mouth and not Cosima’s, dredged up from her perforated lungs—though who could differentiate but the pesky genome sequencers?

Rubbing the stain of blood between her thumb and forefinger, Rachel probed the cut with the tip of her tongue, sucked at the welling of liquid, and said around the swelling, “Feel better?”

Cosima said nothing, spun farther away, head lowered, breathing loud, breathing hard. Rachel knew what expression she hid, could read the wretchedness in the slant of her shoulders.

The elevator dinged and slowed to a stop that pressed their heels into the floor.

Rachel studied the sloped back. “This is where I get off.” Cosima didn’t lift her head. The doors pulled back. “Ciao. Until next time.”

Rachel stepped out. The doors swept back in. Cosima covered her face.

“ _Bitch._ ”

The elevator waited hung suspended. It had nowhere to go.


	24. In the Hands of an Angry God (Cosima, Rachel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for ilovemulch: "The first time Cosima starts to feel scared about her situation. The moment where she shifts from light and optimistic season one Cosima to a scared and disillusioned season two Cosima (I know s2 hasn't happened yet, but use your head canons or predictions for this one)"
> 
> March 12, 2014

It wasn’t during the frantic packing when Cosima had to constantly ask and remind herself not to forget this book or that folder or those chargers and maybe these shoes and,  _Jeez, Cosima, grab the toiletries_ , wiping bullishly at any traitorous tears that managed prison break from her eyes, or when she dashed out to make hasty travel arrangements, fumbling through her purse and then her wallet, mumbling  _Sorry, sorry_ to the attendant who looked at her with the pity reserved for victims of the disaster that was human existence and whose expression of awareness only heightened the constriction wound around her chest, or during the trip itself where there were only hours to think and so she resolved not to think about anything but the conviction of one thought:  _Get to Sarah, figure it out together, get to Sarah, figure it out together, get to Sarah, get to Sarah, get to Sarah._

It wasn’t when the first speckles of blood hit her palm, wet and warm and _red_ , and Cosima thought only, _Okay. Okay. Okay_ , because that was the number of words—the preamble to the next thought, the acknowledgement of the event, or the skirting around it, maybe a detour first to the German—that managed to flit through her mind before Aldous Leekie ambushed her and flooded the stark, vacuous blank of her emotional landscape with an anger so sharp and theretofore undirected that she wasn’t even aware of declaring it, of spitting it at him as if naming it could purge its toxic poison and the influence of everything Aldous Leekie had touched from her body and her life.

It wasn’t when her lungs heaved and heaved and heaved and the splatter that spewed from her throat rendered Felix’s sink a bloody art project, just another set piece in the already full flat, and she thought, _Fuck fuck fuck no fuck_ , and not much more because Felix snuck up behind her and inquired if she was alright— _Yeah, yeah, sorry_ —and there was a knock and she had to disappear the evidence on the porcelain, on her lips, in her mouth because the door was opening and it was Delphine, with baggage, and _she would think about this little problem later_.

It wasn’t when she saw Delphine through the beads that served as privacy screen between bathroom and common space and a band squeezed her heart in a vise and her intestines flip-flopped and figured into knots while her thoughts scowled and her memories howled so that she didn’t know if she was scornful or hopeful or regretful, but felt in her bones how it took an effort to appear fine, to feel fine, to try to convince herself that nothing between herself and this woman could be fine, to fight against her own attempts at self-persuasion or self-deception or who-knew-anymore-what-she-wanted-to-believe, and Cosima was tired—and it was so easy—a relief—to not resist, to give in to a will more determined, more absolved than hers.

It wasn’t when the code surrendered its hidden message and in a second she understood her existence as property, a possession, a  _thing_ , and the fragile walls of denial she had constructed from the first inklings of wonder at the realization of  _clone experiment_ proved made of sand and the tide of reality rushed in cold and unforgiving, dragging away grain by grain the reassurances, the excuses, the convictions of benevolence that had made her once say,  _They care about us, they have to._

It wasn’t when the words rang aloud, in her own voice, by her own admission— _I’m sick_ —where the disease took on life outside of herself and her body and became in someone else’s mind a notion, a concept, a received and accepted fact held in common between them, that rendered the lost blood in her lungs, on her hand, splashed on the sink _realer than real_ and far more immense than could be contained in her small form and for a moment she surrendered to weakness, to risk, and Delphine held her and it felt good and she didn’t know if it should feel good or if she should feel good at a time when the present much less the future was unknown and she and Sarah and Alison were in deep shit and she just had to believe that she had time and science and medicine and the tools—and the allies, please, let them be _allies_ —to _figure this shit out._

No, it was now, looking into eyes that mirrored her own, set in a face molded in equal proportions, but being addressed by a foreign voice cultured with overseas diction and precision— _How are you feeling? You are aware of Katja Obinger’s undiagnosed condition, yes?_ —and recognizing in every line and note of shadow and light only distance and amusement and the distinct lack of warmth all barely concealing smugness and condescension, and discerning, clearly, unmistakably, an intent to poke and prod and wriggle beneath her skin, that Cosima felt the first shivers of pure, unmitigated, irrepressible uncertainty.

Before her, not an abyss but a reflection that gazed right back and through her, who should have been familiar but was alien in every way, stood the embodiment of DYAD.

Rachel Duncan wanted to hurt her.

Cosima had delivered herself into dispassionate hands.


	25. A Spy by Any Other Order (Delphine, Rachel, Cosima)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That time I asked "… Why can’t someone write 'That time when Rachel Duncan propositioned a newly minted Dr. Delphine Cormier and gained herself a plant to spy on her corporate counterpart’s operations and caused Delphine Cormier’s life to spiral out of control' for me?"
> 
> No one did. (Naturally.) So I did. Then people entreated me to stop.
> 
> March 12, 2014 - March 13, 2014 (rearranged from the original posting order to make more sense)

" _Bonjour._ "

Delphine lifted her head, disturbed from her solitary perusal of the latest lab results, and smiled reflexively at the woman who stood beside her table. Her mind cataloged quickly—the tight pull of the woman's lips that might have been waiting to become a smile, the sparkle of tasteful jewelry, the watch that probably didn't tick, the tailored suit and the carefully coiffed hair—and wondered why this visitor had come to her. Not a scientist. " _Bonjour_. Hello."

The woman's lips twitched. "Do you prefer English?"

"I . . . don't mind either. English, if you prefer," Delphine said, the woman's English accent clear enough.

The woman nodded and glanced at the empty seat. "May I?"

"Ah, yes?" Delphine assented.

The woman slid into the vacant chair, settled in. No slouching. Delphine unconsciously straightened in her own seat.

"Dr. Delphine Cormier, correct?" the woman said.

Delphine nodded slowly. "Yes. And you are . . . ?"

The woman held out a hand. "Rachel Duncan. I work here at DYAD. In the corporate division."

"Ah, yes!" Delphine said, sliding her hand into Rachel's. The fingers gripped hers, sure, and then lingered around her hand, sliding across her hand as the other woman released her. " _Enchantée_."

The woman smiled but her eyes didn't quite light up. " _Enchantée_. I understand, Dr. Cormier, that you've been with our science division doing postdoctoral work? Awarded one of our fellowships, correct?"

Delphine nodded, slowly. She had no idea why this woman from corporate was here, at this table, talking to her, an intern. "Yes."

The woman folded her hands upon the table. "And you are aware that we are looking to fill more permanent positions?"

Delphine nodded. She was. Keenly. "I had heard there were openings, yes."

Rachel eyed her for a beat of silence that lasted too long, too uncomfortably. "I'm sorry to inform you that you did not make our list of candidates."

Her words struck Delphine in the gut and from there numbness took root and began to spread into her toes and fingers.

"But," Rachel Duncan continued, recapturing Delphine's attention, "that list might be reconsidered. I was very impressed with your CV." Rachel's gaze went flat with frankness. "I was hoping perhaps we could discuss your experience and your work and determine if you would be a good fit for us here at DYAD. How does that sound?"

"I . . ." Delphine swallowed. She didn't know what to think. This was too sudden. She had no idea who this woman was. Rachel observed her with the intensity of a scientist. "Sure. Yes. Now?"

Rachel smiled. She produced a slim business card holder and extracted a card that she slid across the table. "I'm glad to hear that. However, not now. Tomorrow night? Seven o'clock. Meet me in the lobby and we will go from there."

Delphine reached for the card. As her fingertips fell upon it, Rachel's hand descended on hers. Delphine looked up.

There was a sparkle in Rachel's eyes. "Don't be late."

"I won't," Delphine said. "I will see you at seven o'clock, Ms. Duncan."

The woman smiled. "Please. Just Rachel."

* * *

Rachel reached up and tucked Delpine’s hair behind her ear, movements clinical.

“I knew that if you were given the opportunity, Aldous would have to take notice. His tastes haven’t changed over the years. He will approach you soon. Accept his offer.”

Delphine shook her head. “What offer?”

Rachel smiled humorlessly. “There will be more than one. Accept them all.”

Delphine licked her lips. “But what if—”

“I told you I could get you hired here at DYAD. And I did. Now it’s time for you to uphold your end of the bargain, Dr. Cormier.”

“You never told me what you wanted from me.”

Rachel smiled. Remarkably, it seemed to reach her eyes. “You mean that you thought this was the price. Dear Dr. Cormier. Soon you’ll understand what an opportunity of a lifetime you’ve been given. But you’re correct. Everything comes with a price.” She put a firm hand on Delphine’s shoulder. “Always remember to whom you owe all your fortunes. All will become clear soon. Very soon.”

* * *

When she saw Cosima Niehaus, Delphine couldn't stop staring. It was nothing like looking at Rachel. It wasn't just the hair or the glasses or, good lord, the eyeliner and the tattoos, but everything about her demeanor—the openness, the wild gesticulations. The sight of a woman who looked like Rachel in a lab coat and eagerly peering into a microscope was so odd that Delphine almost forgot to ramble into the phone—with Rachel, actually, who was amusedly bandying back at her in French to do her job well—and had to look away to screen her shock.

x

When Rachel kissed her the first time, Delphine had known it was coming. A part of her recognized that same intent in Cosima, when she stepped close, but it was too late to pull away and the feel of her lips, just like the look of her, was nothing like Rachel, hesitant and asking where Rachel had been all assurance and confidence. The experience was so strange that Delphine's mind froze and then fled, entirely, taking her with it. She had to get out of here. This wasn't right. No.

x

Cosima disrobed so quickly that Delphine had to catch her hands reaching for the clasp of her bra. She looked at her body—good lord, how similar—and couldn't stand to see more. Not right now. Not when it felt too close, too familiar and not, and Delphine had already given so much to Rachel Duncan that she would not let her have this, too. But a part of her knew she was robbing something from Cosima and the shame of it, the shame of so much knowing cloaked her and made her withhold. Cosima read it as shyness and her kindness almost undid Delphine. Rachel enjoyed when she could make her beg.

x

"Aldous will lie to Cosima. He won't tell her everything. Probably withhold something. You know how he is. Use that, go to Cosima, and win her over."

"I don't know where she is," Delphine whispered helplessly, thinking _Please, no, no more._

"Yes, you do. Toronto, Delphine. I've already made arrangements for you. I'll email you the details. Don't miss your flight. I'll expect a full update soon."

She hung up and then Delphine's phone buzzed with the arrival of a new email. Delphine closed her eyes and wished she could ignore it. Yet a part of her wanted to go, too, and that was a _problem_.

How much deeper could this rabbit hole go? she wondered wearily.

* * *

Cosima was intelligent. Very intelligent. Like Rachel. Widely read, deeply delving. But Rachel was casual with her stores of knowledge, almost stingy, content to let kernels slip into conversations as precision strikes. Not magnanimous, not generous like Cosima, who offered every twist and turn in her thoughts like largesse from the overstuffed vaults of her mind. 

Conversation flowed easily with Cosima. Not to say that conversation wasn't easy with Rachel, who conducted the beats of communication like a maestro, but Cosima was _interested_ in the topics, in others' opinions, in other people—for what they could teach her, for what she could learn about them. 

Delphine didn't realize how hungry she was for that consideration, how starved she'd been for such attention up until the moment Cosima inquired into the details of Delphine Beraud's life and ate up every single lie. 

x 

Delphine closed her eyes and bit her lip. The story outlined itself in her mind. Simple. Direct. Half-truths. Half-lies. They were the easiest to tell, she'd learned, and for in telling this one she could be nervous. That would be expected. 

She _was_ nervous. 

Delphine opened her eyes. 

"I can't stop thinking about that kiss." 

Really, they would have commended her, Aldous and Rachel both. 

x 

"Yeah, it showed." 

A part of Delphine almost laughed but the air stagnated in her lungs and all that followed was a shaky exhalation. It had been a bald lie, yes, about not being with a woman before, but part of it felt true, as ludicrous as that would have sounded aloud. To Rachel Delphine had been nothing more than a conquest. Not an object of love or even really one of lust. 

It'd taken Delphine too long to fully see that. 

With Cosima— 

Delphine pushed herself to her feet. 

No. Better not to dwell on it. Better not to wonder if there had been something there, if there could have been something more, if she could have been something other than a pawn in other people's games. 

She wondered, for a brief second, if Rachel had known about that incriminating photograph on the Internet, if Rachel had known Cosima would look, if Rachel had known Cosima would find it. 

* * *

Delphine didn’t know what seized her, what placed one foot in Cosima’s personal space and then the other, that spurred her to advance even when Cosima retreated until there was nowhere else to flee, a desk at her back and Delphine still moving closer. Maybe it was the restlessness, the claustrophobia of being once again in a territory belonging to DYAD. Or maybe it was the knowledge that they were somewhere nearby. Leekie. Rachel. That they had maneuvered her into this position–and now she would move within the boundaries they had set according to her own will.

Dictated by her own wants.

Delphine wanted this. Knew it in the electric thrill that arced beneath her skin when her lips touched Cosima’s. In the flood of relief that eased her heart and then sent it racing in the response of Cosima’s mouth beneath hers.

Delphine wanted this and not even the cursory knowing glance that Rachel raked over her when she walked into the room could stop her now.

Delphine tried to imagine Rachel looking at the website, smiling to herself. But all her imagination would conjure was Cosima's moment of discovery, the disbelief and betrayed anger that must have suffused her face, emotions Delphine had never seen alter Rachel Duncan's marble features.


	26. Wandering Hands (Cophine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill: "wandering hands"
> 
> March 14, 2014

Cosima’s hands flit and fluttered like winged carriers upon which her words took flight and sometimes Delphine felt her own hands itching to fly and sweep with her responses, caught up in the energy and excitement Cosima exuded. But time quieted the enthusiastic conversationalist’s grandiose movements. The hand that would come to rest on Delphine’s thigh grew reluctant to budge, no longer leaping up mid-sentence like a trap sprung but pivoting and rolling along the curve of Delphine’s leg with a minimal shrug of Cosima’s shoulders. The fingers that intertwined with Delphine’s learned to only occasionally jerk both their hands from their place of repose upon one of their laps, a stomach, the mattress or cushion between them and to inject urgency with a clench or a clutch. The points once driven home with stabs into the empty space between them instead were scrolled across Delphine’s skin by fingertips more content to idly scribble along the inside of Delphine’s wrist and forearm, the inner seam that knit together the denim of a pants leg, an exposed jut of collarbone, the cosine slope of waist and hip, the smiling line of her lips. As if with the passing days Cosima were canvassing Delphine’s person. As if over time it proved more and more a suitable place to land her fidgety hands, their possession by restless thoughts. As if maybe somewhere upon Delphine she could ascertain permission to rest.


	27. Actual Drabbles (Cophine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Assorted, unconnected actual drabbles, confined to strict word counts of 100 or 200 words.

The texture and patterns of raised scars spoke to Delphine of the woman beneath her fingertips. They were, more than a name bestowed at birth, beyond numbers in DNA manufactured at conception, markers of identity that an individual will had chosen for herself, brands considered and committed through the spilling of blood and the healing of flesh, henceforth altered, a statement for eyes, a map for fingers, a target for lips.

The sight of them confirmed.

The feel of them reassured.

This woman Delphine would know in the dark. This woman Delphine could identify blind.

_Cosima._

One of a kind.

* * *

Delphine laid her head upon Cosima’s breast and listened to the staccato of heartbeats beneath her ear, strong and rhythmic above a pulmonary pulse that could hitch at the end of a breath overreaching and wheeze not quite undetectably on its steady passage out. Every beat asserted insistent, to drown out whispers of fluid in lungs, to divide time unbroken, to stake in clamor an avowal to persist, so strident and convinced that Delphine almost believed she heard in Cosima’s heart conviction for two, enough to permit Delphine’s hammered heart to calm, to find in Cosima’s a refuge of rest.

* * *

It wasn’t fair, Cosima used to think, that she had always to choose, between closing a book or undoing a top button, between stirring her laptop to late-night wakefulness or shutting down trains of thought to slip into the embrace of beckoning arms, between the thrill of discovering new ideas or the excitement of becoming familiar with anticipating flesh, between eliciting a smile of gratification or an eyeroll of exasperation, between now or later.

As if passion could be prioritized.

As if love were sampled one flavor at a time.

But she hadn’t known this, such hands as would pass her papers to read and, having waited for her to finish, then inch beneath her shirt, or the same smile beaming affectionate upon her head bent studying lab results and sliding satisfied across lips shaping her name in a summons unmistakable, or a mind that wrestled and grappled over similar questions that plagued Cosima long into the twilight hours and told her not to stay up too late, understanding rather than forgiving, recognizing rather than begrudging permission.

Cosima hadn’t known unfairness was not choosing between love and love, but finding both loves joined in a choice so difficult to choose.

* * *

“Cosima,” Delphine said. To thread a guiding yarn through the labyrinthine depths of cogitation into which the other woman had descended. To inject a jolt of animation into features thrown slack in consternation and wrung pinched with doubt. To fill proof with her presence that though beset they were not isolated souls forsaken. To see raised again the face now too often cast down. To remind Cosima to hold her head high. That she could. That she should. That when she groped unsure for identity within, conviction without, and the goal afore, Delphine knew and remembered. “I’m here.”

_Je t'aime._

* * *

Their plan of attack amounted to looking back to build forward, to sift through the original blueprints in shared DNA and pinpoint where the plan had been flawed from the beginning, where had lain in wait potential hazards unforeseen, hiccups unpredictable until execution (without trial). Yet, Delphine wanted to say, the sequence probably hadn’t looked _wrong_ at its conception and maybe it _hadn’t_ been wrong. Certainly it hadn’t known itself for wrong. Had simply run according to parameters.

Time revealed the glitches. Rendered decisions in accordance with nature into mistakes.

But nature, and understanding, evolved.

Meeting Cosima, so had Delphine.


	28. The Scary One (Alison, Delphine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March 24, 2014

Alison eyed Delphine in a long wordless assessment. Then she wrapped her left arm across her middle, propped her elbow on the back of her hand, and pressed the knuckles of her right hand to lips. She looked away, shaking her head.

"She's sleeping with you," Alison murmured, eyes far away. "Incredible. Just incredible."

"Um," Delphine said very quietly, peering at Alison Hendrix uncertainly. _Just once_ , she almost clarified. _We are not together--like that--at the moment._ But Alison Hendrix was far beyond hearing.

"I can't believe her," Alison continued as if Delphine hadn't made a noise. "She knows you're her monitor. Monitors are dangerous. Monitors can't be trusted. They need to be—well."

Delphine swallowed. Alison, in a manner completely different from Sarah, was nothing like Cosima.

"Really, why hasn't she gotten through the whole 'liking girls' phase? I did."

Delphine's lips parted, eyebrows shooting up, eyes widening a bit.

"Stephanie, Hailey, they were fun, sure, but it wasn't for me. Nope. Not for me," Alison picked up under her breath. "I don't see how she hasn't come to the same conclusion. We are the same on some level, aren't we?" Alison's eyes fixed abruptly and piercingly on Delphine. "Aren't we?"

Delphine tried to form words. "Yes, well, biologically, of course. But there is the question of nurture. And, like Cosima is studying, epigenetics may--"

"I see," Alison cut her off unceremoniously. She dragged her gaze over Delphine from head to toe. "I suppose at least she should be commended for having some taste. More than I can say for her fashion 'sense.' Honestly. Well, just so you know, if you endanger me or my family, I know self-defense and I have a glue gun."

Delphine stared, uncomprehending, and before she could dredge up a response, Alison turned away with a little wave of her fingers and a tart, "It was nice meeting you. Goodbye," and toddled off.

Delphine stared after her, filled with a new and absolute certainty that it was not Sarah Manning she should be afraid of, but one Alison Hendrix.


	29. Try New Things (Cophine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April 8, 2014

It caught Cosima’s eye as she ambled toward the checkout counter, gaze scanning passively over the bristling shelves, chin bobbing up and down in tiny increments to mark the time of the beat she tapped out idly against her thigh with the thin eyeliner package. She reached for it before her mind recognized its rightness, her other hand tightening its hold on Delphine’s, grasping the other woman’s attention.

"Hey," she said as her fingers plucked the item from among its fellows and Delphine turned her head. "Look."

Cosima brandished the bottle with a little shake. Delphine tracked the movement, stared for a puzzled second, and then laughed.

"No."

"Why not?"

Delphine shook her head, smiled. “Because it doesn’t suit me.”

"Sure it does," Cosima insisted, raising their joined hands to lay the bottle against Delphine’s skin so that the fluorescent pink polish shone against its fair hue, the tiny sparkles winking in the light. "See? You could totally rock it."

"Put it back," Delphine instructed gently.

"You wear all these dark, somber colors," chided Cosima. "Wear something fun. Try something new."

"You say that like I am resistant to trying new things," Delphine retorted, brow bent with the admonishing incredulity of her tone. A twitch at the corner of Cosima’s mouth acceded the point, a light in her eyes acknowledging. "It’s more like … what would I wear to go with that color?"

"Like any of your countless white blouses or tank tops," Cosima drawled. The skeptical furrow of her brow rivaled the earlier effort of Delphine’s. Quite as suddenly it smoothed, even as Delphine rolled her eyes, a glint of delight brightening Cosima’s features. "Or we could buy you something that matches."

Her persistence coaxed indulgent laughter. “That’s too much trouble.”

"Please? For me?"

Cosima’s eyes entreated Delphine woefully from behind her lenses. Delphine opened her mouth to resist. What came out was a sigh.

Ten minutes later, tugging Cosima up short outside the entrance, Delphine gazed through the storefront display of Victoria’s Secret and said, “This wasn’t what I thought you had in mind.”

"Oh?" Cosima’s expression was all theatrical innocence. "Well, it was." She smiled, pretense abandoned, little fangs peeking sharp. "I promise we’ll find something that matches." Her gaze grew heavy, considering, hooded. "Maybe a few somethings."

She pulled at Delphine’s hand. But for a second Delphine stood rooted, unbudged, expression a guarded neutral, gaze measured and knowing, holding Cosima in suspended expectation to the brink of uncertainty.

Delphine broke into a little smile.

Exhaling, Cosima smiled back, assenting, and led them, with rekindling excitement, both inside.


	30. Choose Your Own Meet Cute (Cophine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have no memory of actually writing these, though I totally see the idea.
> 
> April 2014

"So how did you meet?"

"At school," Cosima said, too quickly.

"Yeah? Were you in the same program?"

"Uh, well, Delphine was, uh—guest lecturing."

"Really? So she was your professor?"

"No, but she was at UMinn and we ran into each other and just sorta, y’know, started hanging out, talking about our projects—and one thing led to another …"

"That’s so great. What was she teaching?"

"I—God, I can barely remember now, it seems like forever ago. Jeez." Cosima laughed, a high-pitched sound, and glanced away. "I’m sorry, excuse me, I think Delphine is looking for me."

—

"You told him _what_?" Delphine hissed. "I hate teaching."

"I know," Cosima whispered back. "He caught me off guard, okay? But, like, you might want to figure out what you were teaching at UMinn just in case he asks you."

Delphine sighed. “Fine. But I think we need a better story in the future.”

Cosima absorbed her words quietly. “You ever think about how ridiculous our lives are?”

Delphine blinked in surprise, only to smile. “Sometimes.” She tucked a finger beneath Cosima’s chin, raising Cosima’s eyes to meet hers. “But I don’t have any complaints.”

* * *

"Where did you two meet?"

"Online," Delphine said before Cosima could finish the sip she was taking from her glass of wine. "On a _Game of Thrones_ forum.” Cosima’s eyes widened. “She was defending the representation of Renly—” Liquid burned through Cosima’s sinuses on a stuttering cough. “—on the television show so passionately and beautifully that I was intrigued.”

A spectrum of curious to smothered second-hand embarrassment arrayed the faces of their dinner companions.

Cosima glared at Delphine through watering eyes, swallowed with difficulty, and eked out in a croak, “Honey, I thought we agreed not to talk about that.”

Delphine lifted her own glass nonchalantly, smile disappearing behind it. “But it was so cute.”

 _I hate you,_ Cosima’s answering look declared.

 _I love you, too,_ replied the dainty quirk of Delphine’s brow.

* * *

"How did you meet?"

The inquiry came small and hesitant and as fluttery as the gaze that whipped back and forth between them, so that before Delphine had drawn breath to speak, Cosima burst out, "Puppies."

Startlement jolted through the spindly frame, all hard knobs and gangly limbs of unexpected teenage growth spurts, folded in tight and unfamiliar and insecure about itself. Their inquisitor's confusion was rivaled by Delphine's, who betrayed in an eyeblink's blank expression her lack of complicity in the tale. 

"What do you mean?" the girl asked cautiously, glancing again at Delphine. The Frenchwoman remained studiously mum, eyes asking Cosima the same question. Cosima ignored Delphine's prompting anticipation and focused on their unexpected park companion. Cosima estimated that she was already taller than herself but with knees tucked up beneath her chin she gave the impression of being no bigger than Kira.

Cosima smiled. 

"Well," the bespectacled scientist drawled, scritching behind the ears of their _other_ unexpected companion, whose tongue lolled from its slack jaw in happiness, "I was puppy-sitting for a friend and one day, when I was taking the puppy for a walk in a park sorta like this one, he suddenly went _nuts_ and _took off_. I should have been holding his leash tighter, but I wasn't and before I knew it he was across the park and—" Cosima glanced at Delphine, whose eyebrows threatened to dart up at any moment. "—had found himself a new friend." Delphine's pulled in her lips, a sure sign she was swallowing laughter. Cosima grinned. "Puppies can recognize others of their kind." Delphine's expression stiffened, eyes widening slightly, conveying incredulity or reprimand—which would have been difficult to say. Certainly Cosima didn't seem to care, grin turning manic, as she launched a two-handed assault on the ecstatic pup and crooned, "Can'tcha? Yes, you can!"

"Really?" the girl prodded, skeptical, eyes darting between them again, but voice tremulous with the faintest thread of hope.

"The puppy did scare her—" Delphine's eyes betrayed the slightest eyeroll. "—okay, _startled_ her—so I had to apologize, of course. But he was so excited to meet her that his little paws got her skirt all dirty, so then I was really sorry. I figured—" Cosima shrugged, throwing up a hand in an unaffected, careless wave. "—the best way to apologize was to treat her to a coffee or meal."

The girl's eyes were large now. "And that's . . . it?"

A glissando of laughter signaled Delphine's lost battle with her amusement. "You may not believe it, but the puppy wasn't all of Cosima's charm. She was very much like a puppy herself."

Cosima's tongue poked discreetly between her teeth in acknowledgement of the touche.

The girl was quiet. "I don't know if I believe you."

Delphine maintained a commendable poker face, but Cosima flat-out grinned. "Let me tell you, as a scientist, which means that I only believe things that I can prove: Life is stranger than fiction. You never know what's going to happen. But when opportunity comes knocking—" She met Delphine's eyes observing her quietly. "—you take it. Or you make your own."

There was a shift beneath the surface of Delphine's features, something that Cosima couldn't quite peg, even after all this time—but knowing that there were still depths to Delphine didn't scare her anymore.

Cosima's lips spread into a sly smile.

"Oooooooor," she sang out, rubbing the puppy's belly, who rolled onto its back obligingly, "you let puppies make them for you."

The girl smiled, uncertain, but contemplation swirling in her young gaze. A minute later, when Delphine had reached a hand out to gently scratch between the puppy's lidded eyes, she glanced at her watch. "I should go. Sorry about Ein."

"No worries," Cosima said, surrendering the dog, who twisted around to seek the withdrawn attention. "We like puppies. Even puppies that barrel into our picnics uninvited." She smiled widely, canines flashing clearly as if to attest to a kinship with _canis lupus_. "Especially puppies that crash in uninvited."

Delphine murmured assent. The duo toddled off with lesser fanfare than their arrival. Delphine and Cosima watched them go.

"Was that wise?" Delphine asked when the girl and her dog were well out of earshot.

"Are you kidding me?" Cosima grinned, turning to her. "That dog is totally gonna introduce her to a cute girl someday. And when that happens, she's going to know exactly what to do."


	31. Job Requirements (Delphine, Leekie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May 23, 2014

Delphine paused around the corner to take a breath. It was a familiar exercise in circumstances unfamiliarizing. She knew, intellectually, that the office would be furnished and arranged and lit exactly as it had been her prior visits—the time before she had stepped foot on the plane that would take her south and into the neighboring country and the times most recent since her return—all glass and clean lines and airy space, surprisingly uncluttered and even markedly modest and undecorated for the achievements of its occupant, himself a sort of fixture of this building, this institution, this corporation. Yet she saw these things now, this space and all of them crawling about its interior, shifting as between states of matter, the same but different, altered and interacting in ways as of yet untested, potentially volatile but, for as long as she stood here, inert.

Delphine checked her watch. In a minute she'd be late.

Her heels announced her loudly across the floor. Seated at his desk, Aldous never glanced up. It wasn't his way. Never had been. He paged through a sheaf of papers, peering down at them along the line of his nose. He didn't invite her to sit. After a moment's consideration, Delphine helped herself to one of the black chairs situated at attention before his desk, sinking onto it smoothly.

A second's debate stalled her: sit up or lean back? 

"How is Cosima?" Aldous uttered with an air of disinterest, catching Delphine in the midst of indecision. Delphine hesitated, then gripped the armrests and readjusted her position, scooting herself farther back until her spine eased against the backrest and crossing her legs at the knees.

"She's fine," she replied in a measured tone. Resentment boiled up within her at the vagueness of his question, never quite leading or pointing to the desired answer, and the silences between their breaths, prompting her to volunteer without direction or limit. "Settling in. Setting up the lab to her specifications." Delphine took a sharp breath. "Eager to begin research."

Aldous made a sound. He might even have glanced up from the papers to scan her expression. There was no approval or censure in the sound, just acknowledgement. "Does all the equipment meet her approval?"

"Yes, she seems—" The rest of the sentence tripped up haltingly across Delphine's tongue. "—happy about the quality of the equipment."

Delphine wet her lips. Unease pricked at her, as if she'd committed some act of betrayal in divulging even that.

Aldous nodded. A twitch of his eyebrows made her wonder if he'd caught her stumble. "And how is she otherwise?"

"I'm sorry?" Delphine asked, hoping for clarification.

Aldous gave her the attention of his gaze, head tilting. "How is her health?"

Delphine nodded. "She's . . . fine. For the most part. Sometimes she has coughing fits, as we observed in the two other subjects, but she isn't exhibiting shortness of breath or trouble breathing. She eats—as regularly as it seems for her."

"How is she sleeping?" Aldous asked without missing a beat.

Delphine hesitated, heart picking up the rhythm of a faster tempo.

"I understand," Aldous said conversationally, setting the papers aside, "that she didn't take up our offer to provide housing. Records show that she never checked into a hotel."

Delphine breathed in through her nose. Aldous observed her levelly, his eyes genial on hers, the faintest of smiles curving his lips. Waiting. Expectant. 

The silence stretched too long.

"She didn't accept my offer either," Delphine admitted quietly.

"Oh," Aldous vocalized, as if this bit of trivia were a curious occurrence. "You're saying that you don't know how she sleeps at night."

Delphine's eyelids fluttered. "Not every night, no."

"So you're privy to the knowledge of some nights," Aldous echoed.

"She . . . sleeps well enough," Delphine answered, smothering a wince, wondering why she couldn't have simply said that in the first place.

"I imagine she must be quite stressed," Aldous remarked.

Delphine kept her silence.

Aldous interlaced his fingers and set them upon the desk. "How is her libido?"

Delphine inhaled sharply. They hadn't yet broached this topic between them. 

Aldous continued. "It's not unusual to find a woman like Cosima using sex as a form of stress relief."

Delphine sat quietly. He raised his eyebrows at her. Letting her gaze slide away, she asked, "Is that what you expect of her, based on her history?"

"I'm not asking about her history," Aldous said, the slightest edge creeping into his voice. "I'm asking about her current condition."

"It would have been nice if you had mentioned before that she was—interested in women," Delphine bit out. "If you had known."

Aldous' eyes narrowed. "It had no bearing on your assignment."

Delphine gripped the armrest, forced the small muscles to relax. "I don't see how discussing Cosima's sexual activity has bearing on her welfare."

"I didn't ask for details, Delphine," Aldous said, almost offended. "You should know as well as I do that ascertaining and quantifying Cosima's state of mind is very important—for her and for us to help her." 

Delphine brushed her fingertips across her lips, breathing out hard, not looking at him.

"You understand," Aldous intoned in low growly tones, "that you are her monitor and that as her monitor you are expected to provide reports on her activities and her health."

Delphine clenched her jaw, eyes cutting farther right. Receiving no answer, he pressed, "Who is she communicating with?"

Delphine shook her head. "I don't know. She makes it a point to not answer any calls around me."

"What is she looking into?"

Delphine closed her eyes. "Respiratory diseases." She struggled. "The history of Dyad. What you would expect."

"What kind of questions is she asking?"

Delphine stared into space, took a breath, and swiveled her head around abruptly to meet his eyes. "Rachel paid her a visit."

For the first time in the interview, Aldous sat back in his chair.

"I got the impression," Delphine said curtly, "she gave Cosima a lot to think about. She wouldn't share all of it with me, but I assume you know the details of what Rachel discussed with her."

A half-smile tugged unevenly at Aldous' lips, pulling his expression into the resemblance of a scoff. "Yes, well, that's above your security clearance."

"Not for my eyes," she agreed. "I can't tell you what I don't know."

"I suppose you can't," Aldous rumbled. "However, I expect you to pay closer attention in the future."

"Do you want me to focus my energies on this disease or play minder to Cosima?"

A pale eyebrow quirked at her. "You can't do both? You've never had trouble mixing one aspect of your life with another. Say, for example, business and pleasure. Don't disappoint, Dr. Cormier. I always expected great things of you."

"Is that all?" Delphine asked tightly.

"Unless you have something to add?" Delphine's dogged silence seemed to coax a smile from Aldous' lips. "Then I wouldn't want to keep Cosima waiting. Until next time."

Delphine nodded, distracted, and stood up stiffly. She felt him watching her exit. She kept her pace even as she stepped through the glass portal and stalked down the halls. She stood straight and proud as she rode the elevator down to the lower floor. She worked her jaw, trying to ease the tension in it as she crossed through the corridors, acknowledging colleagues who greeted her on her trek toward the sky bridge, the view on either side lost to her as she stalked long-strided across it, slowed down only marginally by the steps. She came to a stop, breathing harder than she knew was normal, outside the locked door in the Old Wing.

There Delphine closed her eyes, mind shifting from state of being to state of being, trying to approach something closer to herself—whatever herself happened to be. 

Delphine breathed out slowly, unclipped her security badge, and unlocked the door. 

Cosima looked up as she stepped in. The brunette smiled at her from behind her desk. "Hey."

Delphine smiled back. "Hey."


	32. Old Normal, New Normal (Cosima, the Niehauses, Delphine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May 27, 2014 & May 29, 2014

The ring tone and vibrating buzz punctured the concentration of all three scientists gathered around the computer monitor. Almost as one they all turned and twisted toward the source. 

Cosima frowned and picked up the Blackberry, hitting the volume button to silence it as she scanned the name. 

"Sorry," Cosima muttered.

"Who is it?" Delphine asked quietly.

"My mom," Cosima answered. More to herself, she added, "Third time today."

"Why not answer it?" Delphine suggested gently.

Cosima shook her head. "No, no. Sorry for the interruption. Go ahead, Scott."

"It could be important," Delphine interjected. Seated between the two of them, Scott swiveled his attention between the two women. With her chin, Delphine indicated the monitor. "This will wait. A few minutes won't change the results."

Cosima hesitated, parts annoyed at her phone for the interruption, partly irritated with Delphine for overriding her decision. With a sharp inhalation she gripped the phone tightly, spun about on her heel, and made for the hall, thumb stabbing hastily for the accept button to beat the call being forwarding to voice mail. 

"Hello?" she barked into the receiver.

A second of heavy silence greeted her. "Nice to hear your voice, too, sweetie."

Cosima stepped into the hall, letting the door close behind her, leaned against the wall, and squeezed her eyes shut. "Sorry." She rubbed at her temple. "Hi, Mom."

"Hi, dear."

"What's up?" Cosima asked, shifting to stand more comfortably. "This is, like, the third time you've tried calling me today."

"Yes, and I was beginning to think you were ignoring me."

Her mother's gentle admonishment, chiding but warm, coaxed a small smile from Cosima's lips. "I'm not ignoring you. I'm just a little . . . busy."

"Busy? Really?" Her mother's surprise sounded overblown. "I guess that means—that is, I called to ask—are you here?"

Cosima's expression pinched in confusion. "In San Fran?"

"No, in Minnesota."

"Minnesota?" Cosima straightened up, free arm wrapping around her middle. "Why? Are you there?" 

"Well, your father and I thought we would surprise you—"

Cosima slapped the heel of her hand to her forehead, teeth gritted. She tamped down a rising sense of frustration. "You're in Minneapolis."

"And you're not," her mother concluded.

"No, I'm not," Cosima confirmed, voice tight. "I'm, uh, I—I'm on a trip."

"Where?" her mother asked, all curiosity.

"Toronto," Cosima replied. She saw no point in lying about her location. She didn't know where she could have said she was. 

"Canada?" her mother said, shocked. 

"Yeah," Cosima replied curtly. "How—how long will you be in Minneapolis?"

"Just for the weekend," her mother said, sounding as if she were trying to wrap her mind around Cosima's answer. "We didn't want to impose on you with the semester unfinished."

Cosima smothered a sigh of relief. She covered it with ire. "You should have called me before you came out."

"If we had called, it wouldn't have been a surprise," her mother pointed out. "We didn't see why you wouldn't be here. It's not the holidays yet—and aren't finals coming up?"

"Yeah, yeah," Cosima conceded. "Sorry. My trip was—last-minute. I won't be back before you leave."

"Okay," her mother sighed. "Your father and I will just be down here, sad that we don't get to see you."

"Sorry," Cosima repeated, more sincerely, staring at a spot on the floor.

"We'll make the most of it." Forgiveness colored her words. "But . . . I don't know what I should do with all these snacks we brought. Your father thought you might be craving shrimp chips and Pocky and those salty dried plums. He even suggested we bring you some It's-It, but I told him there was no way we were transporting ice cream."

Cosima smiled and tried not to groan at the mention of the snacks—for which she had definite cravings now. "Eat them. Dad likes 'em, too. I'm surprised he didn't eat it all on the plane ride over."

"Oh, he tried," her mother drawled. Cosima's lips twitched in the gesture of a laugh. "But are you sure? I could leave them outside your door, for when you get back."

"I'm sure," Cosima assured her. "Someone would probably swipe 'em before I got to them."

"Really?" Alarm spiked the word and Cosima could almost hear her reevaluating her daughter's safety. 

"Maybe," Cosima hedged. "Don't worry about it, Mom. Thank you for bringing it, though."

"Mmm," her mother hummed into the phone. "So what are you doing in Toronto?"

"Just—relaxing," Cosima said, mouth stretching uncertainly with her lie. "Thought I'd get away for the weekend. Take a break."

"Is everything okay?" her mother asked, concern apparent but checked. "School isn't—overwhelming, is it?"

"No, everything's—everything's fine, Mom."

"You know you can talk to me—or your father—about anything," her mother said. A pause slipped into the airspace between them. "Or about . . . anyone."

"W-what?" Cosima stammered. "What are you talking about? Who said anything about anyone?"

Her mother's silence was measured and speculative. In the contemplation Cosima thought she heard, very faintly, a belly laugh.

"No one did," her mother said at last. "But if you wanted to, you know that your father and I would listen." Her mother's voice gentled. "We just want to know you're doing well and that you're okay."

"Yeah," Cosima insisted promptly. "Yeah, of course. I'm fine."

"Okay," her mother said, tone relenting, if a bit skeptical. "I'll let you get back to your fun and relaxing. I love you. Here—" Her mother's voice grew distant. "—tell her you love her."

A moment and some crackling later, her father's voice buzzed across the line. "Love ya, Cos."

"Love you, too, Dad," Cosima said quietly. 

"When are you coming to visit?" he asked. 

Cosima hesitated. "We'll figure it out."

"Okay, okay," her father grumbled good-naturedly, "I can hear your excitement." He laughed, teasing, his own exuberance clear. "Sad we didn't get to see you. I was really banking on your playing tour guide so we wouldn't have to figure out things to do."

"I'll email you some restaurants and touristy suggestions," Cosima said.

"That'll help. And just so you know, I'm going to eat everything your mom bought for you. That's what you get; serves you right for not telling your folks you'd be outta town."

Cosima laughed. "I told her to let you eat all the snacks."

"That's right," her father crowed, as if she hadn't agreed. "Anyway, come visit and you can buy all the snacks you want. I'll want to hear all about your dissertation, so prepare yourself."

"Alright, alright," Cosima said, nodding as if she could shoo him along.

"You can bring company, if you want," he added.

"Dad—"

Her father laughed again. "Okay. Love ya. Call your mom more often so she doesn't complain to me so much about how you don't keep in touch."

"Okay," Cosima said. "I'll try. Tell Mom I love her, too."

"I will."

"Bye." It came out barely louder than a whisper. 

"Bye!"

Cosima ended the call before he thought to utter another word. Phone grasped loosely in hand, she stood staring down at it before slipping it into her lab coat. Unclipping her security badge, she unlocked the door and stepped inside. Scott and Delphine looked over. 

"Was it important?" Delphine called across the room.

Cosima considered for a second as she sauntered to rejoin them. "Nope."

"Everything alright?" she asked.

Cosima nodded slowly, expression carefully neutral. "Yeah."

"We ready?" Scott asked. Delphine studied Cosima intently, waiting on her reply. Cosima gazed back at her steadily as she slipped into their cluster before the monitor, not on the opposite side of Scott, but close into Delphine's space.

"Yeah," she said evenly.

Delphine watched her, eyes filled with a question, that heightened in inquiry when Cosima placed a hand in the small of her back. Turning to the screen, Cosima said softly out of the side of her mouth, "You want to do something fun this weekend?"

"What?" Delphine whispered back just as Scott launched into an explanation of the information displayed on the screen. Cosima glanced over, wearing a small smile, and shrugged. Delphine blinked and then smiled back hesitantly.

"Just a thought," Cosima muttered.

"Are you guys listening?" Scott asked.

"Yes," Cosima said. "Go on, Scott. You think you found a piece of synthetic sequence?"

"Yeah, if you look here—" He pointed. Cosima and Delphine exchanged one last look, one that communicated a _Sure_ from Delphine, and then leaned in together to discern what Scott was indicating.

No phones rang for the duration of his explanation.

* * *

_You want to do something fun this weekend?_ , Cosima had posed, but by unspoken understanding and agreement they'd set to the lab Saturday morning—arriving before noon—as if the sun had dawned onto a Friday or Monday and their traversal of the main wing was so quiet and empty because every other soul had run off to lunch. Door locked firmly behind them, they puttered around the secluded—sequestered—lab in the Old Wing. Rather, Cosima puttered and Delphine watched her spin and swivel idly in the computer chair, tap at the keyboard, make a cup of tea, lounge on the couch, wordlessly offer her arm—pocked with the bruises of previous submissions—for Delphine to draw blood, quiet and distant and distracted. 

By mid-afternoon Cosima appeared ready to concede they weren't accomplishing anything productive at the lab. When Delphine glanced over at the monitor, she glimpsed web pages that looked suspiciously like they had nothing to do with science. As if sensing her surveillance, Cosima leaned her head over the back of the chair and said, "Let's go here for dinner." 

Delphine approached cautiously, keeping her attention on Cosima, who trekked her movements with steady, knowing eyes, sitting up as she got close. Bracing a hand on the backrest of Cosima's chair, Delphine leaned over and examined the open tab. It was a restaurant review. The name sounded somewhat familiar. Delphine's eyes skipped down the page, stumbled over the five-dollar rating. 

Delphine considered it as Cosima, looking up at her, began to torque the chair back and forth impatiently. 

"It is formal attire," remarked Delphine at length. "Did you pack formal clothes?" 

Cosima bounced the fingertips of both hands together and grinned. "I can put something together." 

* 

Cosima finished readying first, plopped herself in the armchair beneath the slant of sun reaching through the window blinds, curled her bare feet underneath her, and balanced her laptop atop the skirt of her dress. Quiet, undetected, Delphine stood in the doorframe between living room and bedroom and took a moment to study the other woman, reviewing the day's little discrepancies at the back of her mind as if enough worrying could polish them into clarity. 

"Ready?" Delphine called out softly, plucking Cosima's attention away from the screen. 

Eyes landing on Delphine's figure, Cosima drew a short breath, lips parting, eyes widening. 

The smile that overcame her expression—from corner to corner of her mouth to the brightness of her eyes—warmed Delphine from the inside out. 

Countenance slipping into playful, Cosima asked, "What else you got hidden in your closet?" 

A twinge of wistfulness pricked at Delphine's heart. Cosima hadn't yet seen her like this, assembled with effort and time and consideration, hair piled artfully and jewelry carefully coordinated at her throat and ears and wrists. It hadn't been Cosima, after all, that night at the Dyad event. Delphine mustered through the thought—and the strangeness of their lives&dashwith a small smile. 

"In time, you can find out." 

* 

The hostess greeted their approach with a smile hesitant and skeptical, eyes shifting from one to the other, unsure at whom to direct her inquiry about a reservation. Delphine strode ahead of Cosima, the length of her stride granting her advantage, and placed a hand upon the podium, reading a prepared apology and denial in the hostess' reluctance. Delphine smiled, reassuringly, as she would with a skittish patient. 

They didn't, technically, have a reservation. When Delphine had called earlier, she'd been told the restaurant was booked solid a month in advance. Delphine had considered informing Cosima, but had decided to try a different tactic. Leaning close, conspiratorially, she gave the hostess a name. 

A transformation cascaded through the woman's entire demeanor. 

"Ah, yes, of course," the hostess said pleasantly. "Give us a moment please." 

They were seated in ten minutes, shown to a quiet table out of the way, chairs pushed in for them and napkins held out patiently by smartly vested waiters. Cosima smiled at them, tight-lipped, and stalled until she and Delphine were alone. 

"Have you been here before?" Cosima asked in a tone too casual. 

Delphine, opening the wine menu, shook her head. "No." 

Cosima's mouth twitched. "You gave the hostess Leekie's name." 

Delphine nodded slowly, eyes on the list of reds. "I may have said that Dr. Leekie had a special guest in town tonight whom he wished to entertain and would be joining the party later. Schedule permitting." 

Cosima surveyed the table, dressed with a pristine white tablecloth and three place settings. "Will he be? Joining us later?" 

"No," Delphine uttered, short and definitive. She glanced at Cosima, saw the flatness of her regard, and heard Cosima mentally adding what Delphine didn't say: _Not this time._

Cosima ran her fingers lightly over the embossed cover of the menu. "Well, we're here. Might as well enjoy Leekie's hospitality." A grin edged the brunette's expression toward manic. "He wouldn't happen to have a tab here, would he? Or maybe we could write off dinner as a business expense? I kind of am Leekie's special guest." 

Delphine smiled and shook her head. "Let's not tempt our luck." 

Cosima's eyebrows furrowed, smile turning puzzled. "Were you going for 'let's not tempt fate' or 'let's not push our luck'?" 

Delphine made a face at her. "Whichever works." 

"Okay," Cosima agreed cheerfully, "we won't tempt our luck." 

Delphine's lips pursed in a pout of resentment. Cosima grinned back, looking more at ease, more herself, than she had in the past twenty-four hours. Amusement lingering in her dimples, Cosima flipped open her menu and browsed the first two pages. Idly, offhandedly, she pondered, "Is Leekie's name some kind of magic word? A password like 'open sesame'?" 

"In this city, you will find that his name can open many doors," Delphine said by way of verification. 

"I'll bet," Cosima muttered, a tad darkly. "I'll keep that in mind." 

Delphine breathed in measured lungfuls, sensing the undercurrents of Cosima's mood swirling jaggedly around their words. Reaching across the table, she slipped the wine menu atop Cosima's menu with a soft "Here." 

Cosima raised her head, met Delphine's eyes, and then grasped the menu with a little smile of acknowledgement, the intensity within her gaze ebbing. "What are you having?" 

Delphine shook her head. "Whatever you are." 

"Should we get a bottle?" 

"That may be too much for just the two of us, don't you think?" 

Cosima hummed a noncommittal note. They debated a few choices, the merits of a number of dishes, consulted appetites and cravings, and placed an order probably ambitious for two. (Delphine didn't object, perhaps hoped Cosima's over-extension stemmed from the intention to consume her share.) The atmosphere crackled reminiscent of that dinner in Minneapolis, but with a notable lack of free talk to ease the buzz of tension, of idioms demystified, of little divulgences bridging unknowns, of honesty sacrificed in the fabricated tale of a boyfriend left behind in Paris. 

Delphine longed for a story, even a lie, to settle the restless energy vibrating beneath Cosima's skin, in her wandering look, through the compulsive prodding of her fingers against stem and base of wine glass, handles of silverware, and circumferences of plates and tealight candle holder. Delphine repressed the urge to lay her hand atop Cosima's, to still her ceaseless movements, to capture whatever compelled the brunette to shift and fidget in silence that chafed at Delphine's composure. 

Instead, a swallow of wine trickling warm down her esophagus and acidic on her tongue, Delphine asked, "Do you want to talk about it?" 

Cosima's head jerked up. "Talk about what?" 

"About—" Delphine shook her head. "—about what is bothering you." 

Cosima stared at her, blank. Then she smiled; it cut like a knife slash across her features. "No." 

Delphine hid her frown behind her wine glass, glanced away to disguise the pinch in her chest and the twist of her gut. A moment later the clash of silverware on ceramic fell on her ears. Delphine risked a peek and found Cosima intent on spearing a ring of calamari, perhaps a bit vindictively for a creature that had done nothing to her. 

"Cosima," Delphine said softly. 

Cosima's eyebrows rose in affirmation, concentration dedicated to the dextrous maneuvers of her fork. Delphine watched her closely, set her wine glass down, and took a fortifying breath. 

"You know . . ." Delphine wet her lips. "Counseling is an option." Cosima's fork stilled, midway through bisecting a stuffed mushroom. Delphine crossed her forearms upon the table. "If you want." 

Cosima held still, breathing, gaze directed at her plate. Then she sat back and carefully placed her fork down, cocking her head to look at Delphine. "How would that work? You send me to some Dyad head shrink?" 

Delphine shook her head. "It doesn't have to be someone at the Dyad. We can find someone outside. Funds can be allocated." 

Cosima nodded slowly. "Okay. Let's say I go to some therapist 'unaffiliated' with the Dyad Institute. Do you expect me to believe that Leekie wouldn't--'eavesdrop'? 'Borrow' session notes? Take my therapist out for a few friendly dinners?" 

Delphine fought off a frown. "You would have to trust doctor-patient confidentiality." 

Cosima's mouth twisted into a crooked parody of amusement. "The same brand of doctor-patient confidentiality I had with my university's general practitioner?" 

Delphine's expression pinched in confusion. "What?" 

Cosima dismissed the point with a shake of her head. "Forget it." She adjusted in her seat, posture opening. "Fine. Let's say I do trust a therapist not to succumb to Leekie's . . . incentives." She spread her hands. "What do I tell my therapist?" Her eyebrows lifted in querulous demand. "I've signed a confidentiality agreement with the Dyad, so I can't mention the word 'clone.'" She shrugged a shoulder halfheartedly. "I guess I could fudge the details and talk about how I'm worried that what I have—whatever it is that I have—is a hereditary thing and I'm worried about my 'sisters' getting sick, too. I guess I could say, in vague terms, how I'm withholding stuff from them and from my colleagues at work and from—from you. How I'm lying to my parents. How this is all supposed to be okay and that, actually, I _have_ to lie because everything is a shitstorm. I just can't get into specifics, y'know, like _why_ I can't be honest with anyone in my life anymore, like how a year ago my life was completely different and I didn't know things about myself that would fundamentally change everything about it and now it can never be the same." Cosima stared at Delphine flatly. "To top it all off, I might be dying. Yeah, that sounds like a great idea." 

Delphine forced herself not to look away, to weather the trembling chord of anger woven through Cosima's tirade, to bear witness to the hurt and betrayal in her glittering eyes, to put aside the sting and and ache of her own bruised emotions. Her mouth worked soundlessly until words emerged. 

"I know . . ." Delphine said measuredly, "you cannot tell me . . . all these things. That we don't talk about . . . everything." 

Cosima's eyes flitted restively across Delphine's face. "I wish I could." 

It was a question, for all that it sounded like a wistful lament. 

Delphine couldn't hold Cosima's searching gaze. 

In the ensuing silence unfurled a sigh. "You know, if you were tired of trying to toughening me up through shock and awe—" Delphine's head snapped up. "—you could have just said that." 

Delphine exhaled hard through her nose. "I'm sorry." 

Cosima shrugged. "It is what it is." 

Not forgiveness. Acceptance. 

An impulse to object bubbled up in Delphine's throat. Cosima watched her. 

Delphine said nothing. 

A small smile plucked at the corners of Cosima's mouth, losing and gaining ground by turns. "We're supposed to be having fun." 

Delphine nodded, mute, resisting the pull of sorrow. 

Cosima's smile grew emboldened. "So. Medical school. I thought about it once but figured I didn't want to deal with poking at people." 

Delphine laughed. 

Cosima leaned forward. "So what made you pursue it?" 

Delphine ran a fingertip along the lip of her wine glass. "The usual reasons, I guess. I wanted to help people. But," she pitched her voice low, inclining toward Cosima, "I found out I was okay with poking people, but was less fond of having to interact with them." 

Cosima laughed. "Oh _great_ , I have so much to look forward to." 

"I hope you do," Delphine said, more softly and more earnestly than she'd intended. 

Cosima smiled, that spark of lightness rekindled for the moment, her tone kindness, a truce. "I hope so, too."


	33. At Hello (Delphine, Cosima, the Niehauses)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill: Meeting Parents. Either one’s.
> 
> June 2, 2014

The resounding reverberations of a door slamming forcibly drew Delphine out of the bedroom cautiously. She eyed the bathroom door across the way, closed shut, and hazarded a few tentative steps toward it.

"Cosima?" she called.

Delphine strained, listening, ear cocked to detect any report of the muffled hacking, breath-robbing coughs that had become as of late more and more frequent, sometimes more and more violent, too heart-sinkingly more and more sustained.

"Hello?"

Already tense muscles seized in every one of Delphine's joints at the inquisitive, hesitant voice. Delphine turned her head slowly toward where it emanated. On the coffee table, abandoned in haste that left it precariously overhanging the edge, sat Cosima's laptop, screen angled at Delphine, displaying the amiable, if puzzled, face of a woman and Delphine herself as a tiny figure in the corner window standing frozen (open-mouthed, flabbergasted) in petrification.

"Hello," the woman repeated, kinder, warmer.

"Hello," Delphine breathed, oxygen-starved muscles loosening with the influx of air she sucked into her lungs. Her thoughts whirled. From the distance—a safe distance, Delphine determined, that made it difficult for her own face and features to be observed clearly by the woman—Cosima's mother, her brain supplied cheerfully in the confusion— _Why hadn't Cosima ended the call? What was she going to say?_ —Delphine's mind tried to discern physical resemblances—only for her thoughts to (incredulously, hysterically) scold the attempt: Why would there be resemblances?

But there were similarities, somehow, if not exactly in the shape of face or nose or eyes or the texture of hair or the tone of skin. Delphine saw impressions in the keen brightness of the gaze assessing her form, the way a question hung in the corners of the smile, the aura of alert attention fixed unerringly on Delphine, doubtless cataloguing, intuiting, deducing.

"I'm Cosima's mother," the woman said. Gently, as if addressing a skittish creature. Brightly, as if being helpful. 

Delphine nodded.

"Delphine," she uttered, a hand rising unconsciously to her chest. She hesitated. " _Enchantée._ "

The woman's eyebrows leapt up, an echo of Cosima's reaction once upon a time (a lifetime ago, when she had been Delphine Beraud, immunology doctoral student, heartbroken and forgetful), and responded in a voice melodious, " _Enchantée._ Nice to meet you, Delphine."

They stared at one another upon their respective screens. Delphine didn't look to confirm, but she felt fairly certain she appeared as poised to flee as her legs itched to carry her away.

Pressing her lips together—so reminiscent of Cosima—Mrs. Niehaus leaned toward the screen, disposition caught between interrogation and reassurance. "I have a lot of questions, I hope you understand, and not a lot of time to ask them—if I can trust my reticent daughter to come back as soon as she promised—so forgive me if I seem rude." She smiled. The expression lay as easily and welcomingly on her lips as it did on Cosima's. "Wherever you are, it's not my daughter's apartment, is it?"

Delphine took a sharp breath. "No."

Mrs. Niehaus nodded. "You're not her roommate."

"No," Delphine replied slowly, acutely aware that her answers were caught in the same limbo she and Cosima floated through, unlabeled, unnamed, undefined. 

"You and Cosima met recently?" 

"Yes," Delphine said, wondering if her curt answers were painting her as rude or—surely Mrs. Niehaus had picked up on her accent—unversed in the English language. The latter—Delphine almost laughed—would be preferable, even welcome. 

"At school?"

"Yes," Delphine answered hastily, to avoid the niceties. It wasn't a lie. 

So much of what she said these days weren't, technically, lies. 

Mrs. Niehaus only nodded, mien turning contemplative. 

"Are you—" The bathroom doorknob rattled. Delphine glanced over. "—seeing my daughter?"

Delphine turned back. "It's—" Out of the corner of her eye, the doorknob turned. She groped for an explanation that could encompass the past weeks, the entanglements between monitor and subject, adversary and ally, colleague and coworker, doctor and patient, woman and woman. She considered, for a wild second, pretending to misinterpret the question in a deceptive display of French foreigner ignorance, taking the frank inquiry for its literal meaning. "—complicated. Please, excuse me."

She rushed toward the door, stepping into the widening crack and startling a pale and still gasping—only slightly—Cosima, crowding her shuffling back into the bathroom. 

" _Jesus_ —" wheezed Cosima, fist balled over her chest, a mix of surprise and affront in her wrinkled brow. Delphine closed the door behind them.

" _You didn't hang up_ ," Delphine hissed. 

Cosima, eyes holding traces of wateriness, stared up at her.

"I just talked to your mother," Delphine told her, pressing a palm to her forehead, closing her eyes.

"Oh," Cosima said softly. In the cramped space, they stood catching their breaths in the pause. "What did you say?"

"I introduced myself." Delphine shook her head, running her hand through her hair and tangling her fingers in the loose locks. "She—asked questions."

Cosima was quiet, searching Delphine's face. "Dammit," she managed at last. Delphine peered down at her, at a loss. "I should have hung up. But I couldn't—I couldn't get the words out." Cosima pressed fingertips to her temple, eyes fluttering shut. Adrenaline abating and muscles tremulous in its wake, Delphine took a good look at Cosima, pallid and unsteady, slumped in the shoulders, chest rising and falling in deep, short breaths.

Small.

Delphine reached up and cupped Cosima's cheek. Unthinkingly. Unhesitating. 

Cosima stiffened and opened her eyes.

Most days Delphine would have observed Cosima's struggle in a torture of indecision, debating, and likely would have settled on not presuming, navigating the tightrope she and Cosima had strung between them upon which every action was weighed and measured, given to fall on this side of intimacy and that side of wariness.

Cosima met her gaze. With eyes weary. Sore. 

Delphine stroked her thumb across Cosima's cheek. Cosima's eyelids drooped. She leaned into Delphine's palm and exhaled hard.

Delphine leaned down and pressed her forehead to Cosima's, nuzzling.

"Your mother is probably still waiting," she whispered.

"Shit," Cosima groaned, defeat in every decibel.

"She has a lot of questions. About me. About where you are."

Cosima heaved a sigh. She shifted against Delphine, trying to meet the taller woman's eyes. "Delphine?"

"Yes?"

"I don't want her to see me like this."

The pang passed through Delphine, sharp and lancing, and Delphine held herself still and her breaths steady through its passing. 

She nodded and reluctantly pulled away, her hand slipping from Cosima's cheek, along her neck, to her shoulder. "Okay. So you'll have to say goodbye quickly."

"You don't know my mom," Cosima said drily, craning her head back to fully gaze into her face..

"Not yet," Delphine agreed, "but we both know you. So you're going to go out there and tell her that you forgot we had dinner reservations and that if you don't start getting ready right now, we'll be late."

"Wait," Cosima said, head canting at an angle, "are we talking about dinner reservations for friends or dinner date reservations?"

Delphine shrugged. "No need to specify. I didn't."

"Oh God," Cosima muttered, glancing away, "she's going to have so many questions the next time I talk to her."

Delphine only smiled back, as if to convey, _Isn't this how it always is for us?_ , even as a part of her hoped, _Maybe by then those questions will have clear answers._

Cosima shook her head, hands flying up in surrender. "Okay." She squared her shoulders. Delphine reclaimed her hand, letting it drop. "Let's do it." She opened the door, and then twisted around, catching Delphine's hand and squeezing. "Sorry. This wasn't how I wanted to introduce you to Mom."

Delphine stared at her, an impulse of wild laughter clawing first at her lips before it was repressed. She shook her head slightly, mouth twitching. "I think I made a horrible first impression."

"Nah," Cosima assured her, all grin, all charm, all irresistible allure, "impossible."

She winked and marched out, with more energy than Delphine would have thought her capable of displaying, babbling apologies over the sound of her mother welcoming her back. Delphine listened, a prisoner in her own bathroom awaiting release, and wondered what Cosima's mother would have thought of that, this woman named Delphine hiding from her scrutiny and her speculations regarding her attachment to her daughter.

One day, she almost laughed to think, she might find out. 

Delphine, glimpsing her reflection smiling ruefully amused in the mirror, hoped she would.


	34. The Healing Touch (Cophine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December 3, 2014

With a snap the latex glove released its grip on Delphine’s fingers. She balled it up with its mate, tossed the bundle into a disposal bin, and spun back around in her chair. Seated before her, Cosima slumped, head bowed, expression closed and quiet.

"Are you okay?" Delphine asked softly. "Is something wrong?"

Cosima shrugged, turning her arm this way and that, as if she were trying on the bandaid in the crook of her arm as a fashion accessory and evaluating its appeal.

"Does it hurt?" Delphine prompted, craning her head to get a better look into Cosima’s face. They’d been taking blood samples almost daily, keeping an eye on Cosima's cell counts. Small bruises pocked Cosima’s arms, which Delphine noticed she had taken to covering with long-sleeved shawls and cardigans, as much for warmth as to hide the evidence of their medical routine. But Cosima never complained of pain, in the same way she didn’t comment on her coughing fits and her subsequent gasps for air. Neither did Delphine when they were but scientists in the lab, when all she could offer was a tissue or a backrub or a hug if Cosima didn’t flinch away, back turned as if the screen of her ailing body could hide its own illness so rudely announcing itself.

In these moments, though, when her touch probed and examined as doctor, Delphine could ask questions of her patient. Sometimes Cosima even answered.

At first Cosima didn’t respond, immutable, but mouth twitching, she thrust her arm toward Delphine. “Kiss it, make it better?”

Delphine stared at the bandaged arm. A laugh bubbled up in her. She glanced into Cosima’s eyes, bright with mischief (and not fever), and allowed a little chuckle to escape. Wrangling down a smile, she leaned close and pressed her lips to the wound site, lightly and gently, lingering. She pulled back with an expectant air.

"Better?"

"Mmm," Cosima hummed, pouting in serious thought. "I don’t know. I think maybe there’s something going on here." She tapped her right cheek.

With the gravity of a licensed professional implementing years of medical training, Delphine leaned over and kissed Cosima’s cheek, slow and with consideration. Settling back in her chair, she said, “Better?”

Cosima’s face scrunched up. “Now this side feels neglected.” She pointed to her other cheek.

Delphine attended to the other cheek, her hand resting upon Cosima’s knee for balance, letting her breath fall warm upon Cosima’s skin. Easing back so that she hovered nose-to-nose with Cosima, she met the other woman’s eyes.

"Better?"

"I have a little ache right," Cosima raised a finger to her lips, "here."

Delphine scrutinized Cosima’s lips critically. “That’s very dire. I’m afraid my training didn’t extend that far. We might have to—”

"Oh, shut up," Cosima snapped and surged into her, mouth hungry on Delphine’s and a hand curling around and settling on the back of Delphine’s neck.

"The blood samples," Delphine murmured between kisses.

"They’re not going anywhere," Cosima assured her, "and neither are you."

"Not even to the couch?" Delphine wondered.

"Maybe to the couch." Cosima grinned against her lips. "We’ll see."


	35. In the Here(after) (Cophine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think some of the characters' characteristics have since been canonballed, but I still feel good about this one.
> 
> December 5, 2015

Winter in Toronto was unforgiving. Delphine didn't love winter. Neither did she hate it. The season had never particularly bothered or cheered her before. It was a fact of life, a phase in the annual cycle, bound to come again. But then in Paris winter hadn't meant an _average_ temperature of minus seven degrees Celsius and where snowfall lingered long after the flurries descended, packed in displaced piles on sidewalks. The air stung. Her breath clouded. She shivered in her coat. It was not the climate in which the sane took walks, especially nighttime strolls, but at the conclusion of dinner, the bill paid and the two of them shrugging into outerwear, Cosima declared that she'd eaten too much ramen and a little exercise would lift the lethargy.

"But it's cold," Delphine said.

"The chill will help, too," Cosima agreed.

"That's not what I meant," Delphine said lowly, eyeing Cosima's red coat.

"We'll be fine," Cosima insisted. "Don't you want to see a little bit of the city?"

"Maybe just around the block," Delphine relented. Cosima grinned and slipped her arm through Delphine's.

Out of the restaurant, "around the block" was about as far as Delphine felt willing to go. With Cosima's arm through hers, Delphine took the liberty of assuming the lead. She set off briskly, hoping to get her blood pumping, but checked at the drag of Cosima's weight on her arm, resistant. More mindful, of Cosima's overstuffed stomach and her silent assertion, Delphine turned at the corner in the hope of keeping Cosima to her one-block restriction. 

The building manifested lit to boastful effect at the end of the block, unmistakable. Delphine took them around the next corner. Cosima didn't object, but her head turned and craned as they continued on their path, taking in the soaring walls, arches, spire, and harsh linear lines. Cosima's steps slowed and Delphine slowed with her until they were moving at a crawl as they neared the entrance. 

"Do you want to go in?" Delphine asked.

Cosima's head snapped around. "What?"

"It doesn't look like there is a service now, but I see lights on. Would you like to go inside?" Delphine repeated, her breath threading wispy streams. She stopped and looked askance into Cosima's face. "We can take a look or . . . pray."

An uncertain smile dragged up half of Cosima's mouth. Her brows furrowed, lips working. "I'm not—" She shook her head. "I'm not Catholic."

"You don't need to be Catholic to take a look inside." Delphine smiled. "They won't check." Delphine scanned the imposing, awing structure. "If you like architecture, it is probably worth a look? Or," Delphine said carefully, eyebrows twitching, "if you'd like to pray, we could look for somewhere else. Somewhere nonde-, nondenom—mmm—"

"Nondenominational?" Cosima provided. 

"Yes, _non confessionnelle_ ," Delphine agreed. 

Cosima laughed, but trailed off when Delphine didn't. "I'm not really . . . Christian."

"Okay," Delphine acknowledged. A stiff cold wind darted through the gaps in Delphine's coat. She hunched in her ineffectual protection and asked, "Do you want to go inside?" 

Cosima glanced at the closed doors, looked away, and shook her head. Delphine had no intention of waiting for Cosima to change her mind. She resumed walking, drawing Cosima into step. Cosima kept pace but her arm hung heavy and tugging on Delphine's. 

"Are you Catholic?" Cosima asked.

Delphine smiled. "There are many people who can be called Catholics in France."

"I take it that's a yes. But you're not a practicing Catholic," Cosima said slowly, more statement than question, but sidling close to the latter.

Delphine shook her head. Her ears were cold. Wearing her hair down provided little shield against winter's bite. She didn't know how Cosima endured the frosty bite on her bare ears. Ear muffs or a beanie—some head covering—were in order for the both of them. "No."

Cosima tilted her head. "But Catholic enough to recognize a Catholic Church."

"You did, and you're not Catholic," pointed out Delphine. Talk of Catholicism brought to mind the Eucharist, which prompted thoughts of wine, sipping glasses of which would have been a vastly preferable alternative to a wintertime saunter.

"Well," drawled Cosima with a shrug, "it's called St. Michael's Cathedral. Naming churches after saints is generally a Catholic practice, so I figured it was a good chance the church was Catholic and not Protestant."

Delphine smiled. 

"What?" Cosima demanded, sounding on the edge of defensiveness.

"You—" Delphine smiled again, laughing a little. "You never cease to amaze me."

"Just because I'm not Catholic doesn't mean I'm not curious about the religion. It's totally fascinating, actually." Cosima drew her free hand out of her pocket and ticked off the points on her fingers as she listed them. "Original sin, transubstantiation, indulgences, canonization, the parousia—it's far out there."

"The parousia?"

"The second coming of Christ?" Cosima tried.

Delphine's eyebrows leapt up. "If you say so."

Cosima laughed. "I guess that means you don't believe in it?"

"Believe in what?" Delphine asked mildly.

"Catholic tenets," Cosima clarified, undeterred, patient.

Delphine inclined her head. "You see how well I know them."

Cosima studied her sideways. "Do you believe in God?"

Delphine stared ahead for a moment. "Not the Catholic God."

"So you believe in _a_ god?" Cosima asked.

Delphine smiled. She'd seen the question coming. "Secularism is very popular and accepted in my country. It is a legacy of _la Révolution_."

Cosima nodded. "Right. Which doesn't preclude your ability to believe in a god."

"Do you?" Delphine asked, gazing down at Cosima.

"Uh uh," Cosima chided with a shake of her head, "I asked you first."

Delphine mulled for a second. "Do you believe in the soul?" 

"Dr. Cormier," Cosima crowed, eyebrows arched, "skipping the god question and diving right into soul dualism? I'm impressed."

"Do you?" Delphine pressed. 

Cosima grinned. "You didn't answer my question."

Delphine redirected her attention to where they were going and breathed out through her nose. "I don't know if whether or not I believe in God—or a god—is more important than whether or not you think a soul exists."

Cosima cocked her head. "How d'you figure?"

Delphine stared ahead at the lights of a storefront, the display indistinct from their distance. "You can believe in an afterlife but not believe in a deity."

Cosima nodded slowly. "Like some Buddhists and the concept of reincarnation. Though it's not really ' _reincarnation_ ,' per se. Rebirth has to do with karma keeping us trapped in a cycle we're all supposed to be trying to escape." Delphine blinked while Cosima turned slightly into Delphine. "But Buddhism is more of a philosophy than a religion."

"Are you Buddhist?" Delphine asked, teasing somewhat but genuinely uncertain and curious. 

Cosima flashed her canined grin. "What do you think?"

Delphine tilted her head back in a theater of thought. "No. Impossible."

Confusion knit Cosima's forehead. "Why?"

"Too hedonistic," Delphine declared.

Cosima nudged into Delphine to the peals of the taller woman's laughter and sent them both skittering sideways a step or two. 

"No?" Delphine prompted.

"Maybe," Cosima allowed. "You're right, though, I'm not Buddhist. But I was curious about Buddhism, too. Buddhism," she nodded, head bobbing to each point, "Hinduism, Judaism, Christianity, Taoism, Confucianism, Wiccan, astrology, mythology—Greek, Roman, Norse, Egyptian, Sumerian, East Asian, South American, you name it."

"Really?" Delphine challenged.

Cosima shrugged. "Maybe some more than others."

Delphine grinned, amused by the admission. They were approaching the last corner that would put them back on the street where they'd started. Delphine burrowed her arms deep into her coat pockets, which drew Cosima closer. "What did you conclude? Is there a god? Do we have souls?"

"No."

Their strides carried on smooth and unabated for several lengths of silence.

Delphine nodded.

"You agree?" queried Cosima.

Delphine looked up at the stars. "I don't know if the answers really mattered to me. Before."

Cosima watched Delphine. "Do you pray?"

Delphine ducked her head, smirking—at herself—at her shoes. "Sometimes."

"For me?"

Delphine turned her head and looked at Cosima through her hair. "For me? Maybe?"

"What?" Cosima exclaimed. She jostled into Delphine's side again. With a soft yelp Delphine stumbled on an icy patch and teetered on the edge of a snow drift. Cosima clutched at her arm as Delphine threw her weight back to compensate, which nearly toppled her overbalancing into Cosima. But Cosima was stronger than she looked—even now—and managed to strongwall Delphine upright and stable on her feet. They stood a few seconds, Cosima's hands on Delphine's waist, catching their breaths and laughing through the unpleasantness of the near accident.

"Sorry," Cosima murmured. 

"Let's be more careful," Delphine dismissed the mishap. She offered her arm. Cosima eyed her with teasing skepticism.

"You sure you don't want to lean on me?"

"We'll be perfectly fine if you behave yourself."

"Yes, doctor," Cosima mumbled with mock humility, her pout growing into a smile as she gripped the crook of Delphine's elbow. They set off again, leisurely, footsteps settling into the accord of one sound. 

"Did you mean it? That you pray for yourself?" Cosima asked. "What does that mean?"

Delphine glanced at Cosima, turned away. "If you—" Her throat closed up. "—go—" She swallowed. "—I can't follow. I can't—" She shook her head.

Cosima studied her. Delphine could make out her upturned face at the edge of her peripheral vision. "You're saying you want me to go on living for your selfish reasons?" Before Delphine could answer, Cosima said, "I guess that's okay. I've got some pretty selfish reasons to want to go on living, too."

Delphine blinked back moisture in her eyes and nodded. She didn't trust her voice.

"Hey." Cosima stopped, pulling Delphine up short. She turned to face Delphine. Delphine looked over her shoulder, anywhere but into Cosima's face. "I'm still here."

And for some reason, perhaps because her stomach had balled tight and ached for a release, perhaps because the only alternative was to cry, Delphine laughed. A forced sound that wheezed out more like a gasp. She hung her head, nodding, and cleared her throat. "Yes. Yes, you are."

Cosima scrutinized her in that intense manner of hers, as if with sight alone she were attempting to peel back the layers of Delphine's face, past the dermis and into the nerves, to get at the very pulses directing the muscles of Delphine's expression, as if she might be able to decipher the message in the electrical signals and lay bare Delphine's thoughts and motivations. 

Delphine wished she could.

Cosima nodded.

Delphine leaned down and rested her forehead against Cosima's. Cosima reached up in the space between them and traced Delphine's lips.

"Do you think," Cosima said softly, "we should go back and light some candles?"

Delphine straightened in surprise. "What?"

Cosima grinned. "It wouldn't hurt, right?"

Delphine gasped. "You just said you don't believe in God."

The clone shrugged. "I'm not gonna begrudge a miracle. I mean, I'm pretty scientifically miraculous already, a little more miraculousness just sounds apt."

Delphine stared at her. 

Cosima spread her hands. "Yeah?"

Delphine stared. Then she shook her head, grabbed Cosima's face between her hands, and kissed her hard and long. When she pulled back, Cosima was open-mouthed.

"How about we go home and get warm?" Delphine suggested.

"Okay," Cosima breathed, sight focused on Delphine's lips, "but when God asks me why I didn't find Him, I'm going to blame you."

Delphine cocked an eyebrow. "But I'm the one who makes you call out for Him."

"Oh my God," Cosima gasped, eyes widening. 

Delphine kissed her again, quick, to stop the smart retort in her expression. "See? Let's go."

Cosima laughed and grasped her hand, interlacing their fingers, her touch soft, tangible, and undeniably, gloriously, miraculously alive.


	36. All that Glitters (Cophine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December 8, 2014

The lab was useless to them until it was refitted. Refitting required a list of necessities Delphine had penned into her notebook. There was only one course of action available to Cosima and Delphine: Go shopping. 

"How is this gonna work?" Cosima asked. "We keep the receipts and get reimbursed?"

Delphine shook her head. "No, we charge it to the company credit line."

"They gave you a company expense account to take me shopping?" Cosima asked, incredulous but nevertheless pleased at the prospect.

"No," Delphine said slowly, "I have access to one."

One delicately shaped eyebrow cocked at Delphine. Delphine gazed back frankly. The bold outlines of Cosima's eyes narrowed and her mouth pursed, but no comment sallied from her lips. Head lolling, Cosima's expression eased into a grin. "Can I borrow your phone?"

Delphine drew her mobile out of her pocket and handed it to Cosima quizzically. "What for?"

Cosima swiped her finger across the screen to unlock it. "Do you think there's an authentic Persian rug dealer in Toronto?"

*

There were several Persian rug dealers, as well as a number of high-end furniture stores, a Crate & Barrel, an Office Depot, and, because "plain walls are depressing," a print operation that provided poster-quality reproductions. If Cosima had outlined her intention to visit every one of those vendors before they set out, Delphine would have doubted—maybe even chuckled at or shook her head over or hid a smile thinking about—her ambition. But Delphine hadn't been apprised and could only watch in wonder as Cosima put on a demonstration of unprecedented shopping efficiency—efficiency characterized by concrete goals, clear specifications, executive decisions, and the speedy communication of acceptable price ranges to the nearest available staff. By the end of the day, Delphine's notebook featured a checkmark next to every item Cosima had mentioned the day before and various last-minute ones she declared she couldn't live without. 

Delphine's head whirled. She felt like the survivor of a storm. One who had gone chasing after the tornado and gotten swallowed up by the vortex.

"That thing really has no limit," Cosima remarked as Delphine tucked away the Dyad Group credit card after the final purchase. "Were _you_ supposed to be the limiting factor?"

"There was no mention of limits," Delphine answered. The clerk flourished a receipt for her to sign and traded the merchant slip for a customer copy. Delphine thanked him with a smile—grateful for the service, but also that no other shopping destinations waited—and carefully stowed the receipt among its accumulated brethren. Once outside, she picked up the thread of her and Cosima's conversation. "Besides, you . . . held back, though, didn't you? You didn't choose the most expensive options."

Cosima shrugged. "The most expensive stuff isn't always the most comfortable or appealing."

Delphine smiled. "Yes, you made very comfortable choices."

Cosima cocked her head, as if listening for something. After a moment, she simply said, "Your input was helpful."

"I'm glad," replied Delphine, though she was fairly certain Cosima would have made the same choices without her counsel. That Cosima wanted to solicit her opinion had surprised Delphine at first, but she began to anticipate the way Cosima would contemplate an object, then turn to her, a question in her eyes and sometimes hung upon a brow, that look divulging an approximation of trust, suggesting an unspoken esteem. Each taste had left Delphine hungrier for more.

"Did we get everything on the list?" Cosima asked brightly.

"We did." 

"Then I guess we're done," Cosima declared. "Think your plastique can swing dinner?"

Delphine laughed, almost as much at the way Cosima said _plas-teek_ as at her suggestion. "That—that may be pushing it."

"Really?" Cosima said. "You're telling me it hasn't already bought dinner for us?"

Delphine eyed Cosima, amusement retreating. Cosima smiled, the brightness of her expression rendered more luminous by the beacon red of her coat. In an echo of eeriness, Delphine was reminded of Sarah masquerading as her sister clone. Conning favors. (Receiving kisses.) "Where would you like to go?"

*

Tacos didn't seem like a cuisine that would put a dent in Dyad's bottom line, but dinner was an assortment of street-styles tacos that dripped flavor and juices all over their plates and fingers. It was a mess. It was delicious.

"So, one question," Cosima said, cleaning her fingers on her third napkin, leaning forward, and meeting Delphine's eyes. 

In the pause during which Delphine expected Cosima to continue, Delphine finished chewing, swallowed, and wiped at her mouth. She inclined her head in puzzlement. "Yes?"

Cosima inhaled, lips parting, conflict in the squint of her eyes. Delphine tensed. Gravely, Cosima asked, "Do I get my own company credit card or do I have to bum yours any time I want to buy something?"

Delphine laughed. She shook her head, once, twice. "I—I don't know."

Cosima grinned. "When did you get that perk?"

Delphine sobered. Cosima's expression was pleasant, but an edge lurked in her tone and her gaze had gone flat. Delphine wet her lips. "Before I went on assignment to Minneapolis."

Cosima nodded, smile unwavering. "Travel expenses, living expenses—the cost of a monitor adds up."

Delphine rubbed a napkin between her fingers.

"You know," Cosima said lowly, "if I had known you were bankrolled, I would have made you pay for everything."

Delphine directed a self-deprecating smile at the tabletop. "I didn't use it to pay for everything."

"No?"

Delphine shook her head.

"Like what?" Cosima asked.

Delphine smiled tightly. "The truffles."

In the silence, Delphine lifted her head. Cosima was watching her, blank, unreadable. They studied one another wordlessly. Delphine had an impulse to shrug. It was, she realized, a response she was used to receiving from Cosima. 

A subtle shift softened Cosima's expression. Cosima held out a hand. "Can I borrow your phone?"

Delphine laughed, a defeated, weary wheeze. "What for?"

"So I can look up a place for dessert." Her hand hovered, expectant. "I'm in the mood for chocolate."

"Cosima—"

"They created this problem," Cosima said, "now they have to pay to fix it."

Delphine couldn't help it; she chuckled. Softly at first, then more robustly, secure in the absurdity of their lives. Shaking her head, she dug her phone out of her coat pocket and placed it upon Cosima's upturned palm—but didn't relinquish her hold. She met Cosima's eyes, humor fading. 

"Cosima," she said, "I will buy you as many truffles as you want, whenever you want. Promise. Okay?"

Cosima's fingers closed around the phone, curling around Delphine's in her grip. "Okay." She blinked behind her lenses. "But I still want dessert. And I think Leekie should pay for it."

Delphine nodded. "Okay."

"I would like it to be fancy dessert, but if you're tired, it doesn't have to be."

Delphine nodded. "Okay."

"And I won't promise this'll be the only time."

Delphine smiled and nodded. "If they don't cancel the card after today, okay."

"Okay," Cosima echoed.

"Okay," Delphine breathed, slipping her fingers out of Cosima's grasp. Cosima clutched the phone like a prize, eyes fixed on Delphine's face.

"Thank you," said Cosima.

"You're welcome," Delphine said. She hesitated. "Always."

Cosima gave no indication of noticing, but for the sedate, soft smile that overspread her lips. The sight warmed Delphine's heart, a reward worth its price of effort. Always.


	37. Last Resort (Orphan Fringe)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Orphan Fringe](http://morningmightcomebyaccident.tumblr.com/tagged/orphan+fringe) is an idea I contemplate now and again, but I do more speculative writing than actual fanfic writing for it. In short, Blue Verse would be "Orphan Black" canon and the parallel universe clones live in Fringe's Red Verse. The analogues have similarities and differences.
> 
> Red Verse Cosima Niehaus is a scientist who works on amber technology for the Department of Defense under Secretary Walter Bishop. Red Verse Delphine is an immunologist doctor who, like Red Verse Frank of Fringe, deals with epidemics and outbreaks.
> 
> They met. They fell in love. They had to work it out. In a dying world.
> 
> I'm sure your mind is feeling as overloaded as mine always does.
> 
> August 30, 2014

"Amber."

The corners of Cosima’s mouth dipped, those of her eyes pinching.

Delphine frowned behind the tips of her fingers pressed to her lips. “No?”

Cosima looked away. Delphine’s hand dropped heavily to the tabletop.

"Seriously?"

Cosima inhaled deeply. “Delphine—”

"You remember how we met, yes?" The words halted Cosima’s hesitant objection, clipped, impatient, harsher than Delphine had intended. "An outbreak of polio, the situation threatening to get out of hand, and your team ready to amber—"

"I remember," Cosima cut her off. She rubbed at her temple.

"And you told me that amber would give us time to—"

"I know.”

Delphine jabbed the tabletop. “You know, but now you—”

"Delphine."

Cosima lifted tired eyes to meet Delphine’s stern gaze. Delphine breathed slowly—in, out—and wrestled down a tag team combination of frustration and anxiety. “Why not?”

Cosima shook her head, made a glancing swipe at her brow.

"Were you lying about being able to remove people from amber?"

Cosima smirked, a hint of laughter lighting her eyes. “Nice try.”

Delphine didn’t laugh. “You need time."

Cosima sobered. Quietly, she asked, “How much time?”

Delphine’s expression crinkled into confusion.

"A year?" pressed Cosima, voice cracking as her breath choked short. She cleared her throat—as discreetly as she could manage—as Delphine’s leapt into her own. "Two? Five? Ten? Twenty?"

Delphine’s curls swayed with the shake of her head. “I don’t know. But likely more time than we have now. And the longer we wait the harder—the less—” Delphine covered her mouth. Cosima watched her steadily in silence. Delphine wiped her lips. “The sooner you go into stasis, the greater our chances of minimizing complications.”

Cosima was unflinching behind her glasses. “There are no guarantees that putting me in amber will stop all of my biological functions.” She gestured helplessly. “Or that there won’t be side effects taking me out of it.”

"So … you lied to me back then?" Delphine asked, striving to keep any inflection out of her voice.

"We’ve run tests, of course, but nothing is perfect. It’s—" Cosima shrugged. "—man-made technology. I’m a result of human technology. Sometimes things go wrong.”

Delphine’s molars ground against each other. “It’s a risk, yes. A risk you were willing to take with other people’s lives.”

"To save other lives," Cosima said softly. "If we had no other choice."

"We are running out of choices," Delphine whispered.

Cosima dropped her gaze to the tabletop and traced a swirl on the surface. “Putting me in amber doesn’t guarantee you’ll find a cure—or that there even is a cure.”

"There has to be," Delphine said, voice hard. "I’ll find it."

Cosima’s mouth twitched in an aborted smile. “What if the world ends before you can?”

Delphine’s sucked in her lips.

"It’s not getting any better," Cosima said, sorrowful but frank. She beat out a staccato burst against the table. "Kinda like me." Delphine ducked her head. "And what about the others? You put me in amber, then—what? You tell Beth she has to go into amber too? And everyone else? Beth hasn’t even made contact with everyone—what are they going to think? Are you going to save all of them?"

Delphine breathed out through her nose. “Is that what you want?”

Cosima quirked an eyebrow at her. “It seems fair, don’t you think? Presumably if you can cure me, you can cure all of them. It sorta seems like a waste of a clone cure otherwise.”

"We would have to speak to Agent Childs, of course," Delphine said slowly. "We couldn’t force anyone into amber against their will."

"Right?" Cosima said quietly.

"I’m not forcing you to be ambered," Delphine said, her accent catching on the last word. "I’m trying to make you see that it may be our best course of action."

Cosima smiled, amused, but tired. “Okay. Let’s say you get me—and maybe everyone else—in amber. How will you go about searching for a cure? How are you going to finance research that will only benefit a handful of women whose illness probably doesn’t occur in the rest of the population? How are you going to put food on the table and keep a roof over your head?”

Delphine’s mouth thinned into a line. Cosima squinted at her.

"You want to go to our creators," Cosima said heavily.

"Who else would know you better?" Delphine said plainly.

Cosima shook her head. “Beth hasn’t found them yet.”

"So she says."

Cosima fixed narrowed eyes on Delphine. “You think she’s lying?”

"I think there may be a quick way to find them."

The lift of Cosima’s eyebrows demanded how.

"Come clean," Delphine proposed softly.

"To … ?" Cosima drawled.

"The one person who knows everything that happens in this country."

Cosima frowned in thought, then shook her head. “You can’t mean the Secretary of Defense.”

Delphine twitched her head in an approximation of a shrug.

Cosima let out a gasp of laughter. “I doubt I could even secure a meeting with him.”

"I think he would want to hear information of this nature. Even if you couldn’t, Beth might be able to."

"Beth would say talking to the Secretary is crazy, if not stupid."

"Why?" Delphine asked. "We’ve speculated countless times that the clone project is a government experiment. If it is, the Secretary would know—and if he doesn’t know, he has the means to find out who is behind it. We don’t even know if your creators know you are ill, or if they are still in operation or if you are an abandoned project, but finding your origins may provide a key to—"

Cosima raised a forestalling hand. “I know, I know, we’ve been over this.”

"And still you won’t—"

"I don’t want to lose the time with you," Cosima said abruptly.

Delphine trailed off in the middle of forming a word.

"I don’t want to go into amber and have the world end six months later while I’m sleeping—or whatever it is that the human brain does in there. I don’t want to come out twenty years from now like waking up from a nap to see you—having lived your life without me." Cosima stared hard at the tabletop. "I don’t want you to search for something you might never find. I don’t want you to—" She swallowed. "I don’t want you to feel like you have to be loyal to someone you can’t talk to everyday. I don’t want you to put your life on hold for me."

Delphine clenched her jaw against its tremble and took a shaky breath. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Cosima sat gazing into the tabletop. Then she smiled, a feeble stretching of her lips, and raised her eyes. “Especially not after all that hassle with immigration.”

Delphine laughed, a watery sound. “Yes. And having accepted what passes as bread here.”

"Hey, didn’t I totally smuggle up some butter last week?"

"Yes," Delphine conceded, blinking away moisture in her eyes, "you did. It was wonderful."

Cosima beamed. With effort Delphine smiled back at her. Consideringly, Cosima reached across the table, palm up. Delphine studied it and the offer. Her hand slipped easily and familiarly into Cosima’s. Cosima’s fingers closed warmly around hers, her thumb stroking.

"I’m not giving up," Cosima said. "And I’m not ready to give up on now. There are ways we can keep the tumors in check and slow their spread.”

Delphine nodded. She closed her eyes briefly. “You are not the only one who has been thinking about costs.”

Cosima made a small sound that was almost a snort. “You mean you were thinking that putting me in amber would be a cheaper health care option?”

"No medical expenses, no food expenses, no insurance fees—you could even make a nice coffee table."

"Oh my God, could you imagine what guests would think?"

"I’m flattered you think I would have time to have guests over. But I can imagine a few people who might enjoy the opportunity to make you serve them. They might even pay for the pleasure."

"That’s creepy," Cosima warned her.

Delphine relented with a slightly apologetic smile.

"We’ll figure it out," Cosima said softly.

"Is amber not an option at all?" tried Delphine one last time.

"Let’s figure out all the other options first."

"Can we at least talk to Beth about other ways to pursue your origins?"

"Yeah, but," Cosima shrugged, "she probably won’t be too excited about your suggestions."

"You’re not beholden to her, you know," Delphine said lowly.

"I know. But we’re stronger working together than at cross purposes. And if there’s one thing I believe about Beth, it’s that she wants answers, too."

"Do you trust her?" Delphine asked.

Cosima breathed out heavily. “She works to save the world, doesn’t she? I mean, that’s her job, to save the world.”

Delphine frowned in mock offense. “You and I work to save the world, too.”

Cosima tugged at her hand. “Then is it wrong to distract you from doing that?”

"I don’t see what you mean by distracting me. You are a part of the world, an important part of mine."

"Thinking like that could make you a dangerous woman, Delphine Cormier," Cosima intoned.

"I’m a determined woman," Delphine corrected her, capturing Cosima’s hand and raising it to her lips. She kissed it. "You’ll see."

Cosima smirked. “Pretty sure I already have.”


	38. Arriving Unforeseen (Orphan Fringe)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See summary of Chapter 37 for Orphan Fringe AU description.
> 
> This Orphan Fringe fic was written for the #CophineFluffathon.
> 
> March 22, 2015

Reflex made Cosima swipe for the light switch when she entered her apartment, only to meet no resistance and the belated realization that the lights were already on.

"Welcome home, _ma chérie_ ," sang a voice from the kitchenette.

"Delphine?" Cosima called back, shuffling fully into the apartment, closing the door, and dumping her bags absentmindedly by the shoe rack as she ventured cautiously farther into the hall. "I thought—I'm pretty sure your email said you were getting in tomorrow."

"I lied," came the cheerful response around a corner a second before Delphine poked her head into the hall, a cheerful smile curving the lips that had for a week spilled deceit. "Surprise! Hello."

Cosima stared at her, momentarily to adjust to the reality of Delphine's presence a day early and completely unexpected (just when Cosima's anticipation should have been ramping up to intolerable), then simply because Delphine was beautiful, wearing her hair sloppily but functionally swept up and a distracting shade of red on her lips and somehow managing to make Cosima's geeky CoOK cobalt-oxygen-potassium periodic table kitchen apron look like a chic fashion statement.

Delphine arched an eyebrow. "No hello?"

Cosima grinned, elation finally seizing hold of her senses and hurrying her feet across the distance into Delphine's space.

"Hello," Cosima breathed as she leaned up into Delphine and tipped into the softness of those receptive red, red lips. She could feel Delphine smile against her and knew she was smiling too.

"Hello," Delphine whispered as they parted.

"You already said that," Cosima teased. "Liar."

"I'm sorry for lying," Delphine said, not sounding the least bit contrite, "but in penance I offer _soupe, moules marinières_ , and _vin_ , of course."

"Come again?" Cosima asked as she trailed Delphine into the kitchenette, arms around Delphine's waist. She could identify the soup by the heavy aroma swirling in the air, the salt that she could almost taste on her tongue, the promise of the combination of cheese and baguette and caramelized onions making her salivate, especially when a frozen dinner had been her evening meal plan just five minutes ago. The other item Delphine mentioned was a complete mystery until Cosima peeked into the pot over Delphine's shoulder. "Oh my God, mussels!" She pincered her arms around Delphine tightly. "How did you even?"

Delphine laughed. "Am I forgiven?"

"It's a start," Cosima allowed grudgingly.

"Only a start?" Delphine chided, hands alighting upon Cosima's forearms crossed around her middle. "Fine. What if I said I have the weekend off and the whole week after that, pending an epidemic outbreak, and for sure there will be no accidents at your lab during the week that will trap you in amber during that time?"

The news, as unforeseen as Delphine's early arrival, sent a thrill of anticipation through Cosima, warm and bubbly. Cosima pressed her cheek into Delphine's shoulder to hide a smile. "Clearly the most pressing issue in that declaration is how you know what will or won't happen at the lab next week."

"No accidents will happen because I say they won't happen," Delphine said, matter of fact.

"Oh. Of course. In that case, can you will all my tests to work how I want them to?"

"No, that would be too easy," Delphine assured her with a pat on the arm. "I don't want to steal the satisfaction you'll feel when your hard work pays off."

Cosima suppressed a laugh and said, drily, "Of course." Allowing a genuine note of delight to bleed into her delivery, she added, "Wanna test your hard work in the kitchen?"

"Set the table?" Delphine suggested. "I lost track of time and didn't get to it."

Cosima loosed a low growl of protest in her throat at having to separate, but untangled herself and did as bid as Delphine transferred the meal into dishes and put on the finishing touches.

"Which wine glasses do you want?" Cosima asked.

"The flutes," Delphine responded absently.

Cosima's eyebrows arched in silent wonder, but she obeyed, fishing out two flutes from the glass cabinet and dug out a few tea candles for good measure. Delphine laughed a little as she lit them, but Cosima smiled widely as she sat down to the picture lovely table.

"And now," Delphine said, hoisting a bottle of wine and undoing the wire twist imprisoning the cork.

Cosima squinted at the bottle. "Wait. Let me see that?"

Delphine passed it to her. Cosima scanned the label and was inundated with a sudden sinking sensation of holding a Ming vase in her hands.

"This is champagne," Cosima breathed. "From Champagne. Like actual champagne." She lifted her eyes. "How did you get this? Champagne hasn't produced grape crops in years since that tear caused devastating climate change in that area. This is—this is priceless. We could put this away as an investment."

Delphine smiled in self-satisfied smugness. "A father gave it to me after the measles outbreak in Florida. His daughter was among the patients my team managed to save. He said, 'Celebrate your good work.'"

"Holy shit, no kidding," Cosima whispered, turning the bottle this way and that to examine the label. "I don't know if we should open this."

"Why not?" Delphine said, voice edged with challenge. "The world could end tomorrow. Then it'd just go to waste, undrunk."

"Yeah, but, don't you think a bottle like this deserves a big occasion?" Cosima asked, looking at Delphine across the table.

"Are you saying seeing me isn't an occasion?" Delphine retorted.

"Of course, it is," Cosima backpedaled, "but I'm not sure it's . . . potentially thousands of dollars worth of an occasion."

Delphine laughed. "Then give it to me. I will open it. It's my bottle."

Cosima clutched the bottle for an undecided second. "But what if we manage to fix the world? We might regret this thirty years from now."

Delphine's eyes sparkled. "Give me the bottle, Cosima."

Cosima handed it back reluctantly. As she watched Delphine remove the wire tie, she said, "I can't tell if this is pessimistic or opportunistic."

"Neither," Delphine clarified as she covered the cork with a dish towel. "It's just something I want to share with you." She tossed Cosima a crooked smile. "A father gave this to me for saving his daughter's life. His daughter's life was worth more to him than this 'priceless' bottle of champagne."

Cosima took a deep breath as Delphine carefully turned the cork and released it with any last regrets as it popped loose. Delphine poured out two fizzy glasses as Cosima watched wistfully.

After a bit, Cosima smiled. "Is this what I could always come home to?"

Delphine laughed.

"I mean, I could get used to this," Cosima continued as Delphine picked up her spoon and poked at the crust of her bowl of soup. A conviction rose up in Cosima like the bubbles effervescing in their fluted glasses. She watched Delphine's motions, graceful, her fingers precise with the elegance of a trained surgeon. "Marry me, Delphine."

Delphine froze, eyes darting alarmedly to Cosima's face. When Cosima's expression betrayed nothing, Delphine laughed.

Cosima cracked a smile. "Marry me. A proposal seems a pretty momentous occasion to celebrate with a real bottle of champagne."

"My bottle of champagne," Delphine breathed, eyes lowering to the tabletop.

"No?" Cosima prompted. "We've been dating for two years now. Marry me and we can stop playing this long-distance game."

"Oh?" Delphine challenged, eyes back on Cosima. "You'll move to France?"

"No," Cosima said slowly, heart sinking. "You know my work is here. But if you hadn't opened that bottle of champagne, we could afford to keep two properties and travel between them for holidays." She said it only part teasingly. "You don't want to marry me?"

Delphine didn't look at her for a time. Wetting her lips, Delphine found Cosima's eyes again and said, very softly, "I love you very much, even though you drive me as crazy as much as I love you."

"But you don't want to marry me?" Cosima asked.

"I do," Delphine said, simply and unwaveringly.

"But?" Cosima prompted again.

Delphine shook her head. "I don't know."

"The world could end tomorrow," Cosima said.

"Yes," Delphine agreed, sounding tired.

"Or I could get stuck in amber in a lab accident and you could contract a deadly disease."

Delphine sighed. "Yes."

"Which kinda sounds to me like we should hurry up and get married rather than wait," Cosima teased, because she understood Delphine's fear and hesitation and also her love and sincerity.

Delphine closed her eyes briefly, in resigned surrender at having her argument turned back on her, and opened her eyes again with a smile that berated mildly.

"Marry me," Cosima repeated.

"I will," Delphine whispered. "Yes."

Cosima grinned. "I don't have a ring."

"I know," Delphine said, chuckling a little.

"I expected you back tomorrow."

"I know."

"Because you told me so."

"I know."

"Full disclosure, though, that has nothing to do with proposing to you."

Delphine nodded. "I know."

"But you're gonna marry me," Cosima finished.

"Yes," Delphine said with finality.

"Can I kiss you?"

"If I say yes, can we finally eat this meal I prepared for you in secret?"

"Yes," Cosima confirmed.

"Then, yes," Delphine agreed and Cosima got up and kissed her, twice for good measure, and when she sat down they ate and the crust on the soup was amazing and the mussels were mouth-wateringly delicious and the champagne bubbled up their noses with every glass and all throughout dinner they snuck smiles at each other, together again after two weeks of absence and, if the world ended tomorrow, definitely, undoubtedly, twice-avowed engaged.


	39. Marriage Equality (Orphan Fringe)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 37 for description of this Orphan Fringe AU.
> 
> April 16, 2015

Delphine flipped through the papers, pen in her free hand, eyes skimming the pages top to bottom with staid scrutiny.

"So you'll be taking my last name?" Delphine asked aloud casually.

Cosima gagged on her mouthful of wheat bran cereal, which logged a flake uncomfortably in her throat, which led to a coughing fit that nearly sent masticated milk-soaked bits spewing all over the table, a spray that she managed to catch with a hand hastily clamped over her mouth. Delphine looked over in mild concern as Cosima hacked and wheezed, chewed and swallowed with difficulty, eyes watery. Delphine nudged over her glass of water within Cosima's reach. Cosima grasped it and sipped, then gulped, greedily.

Cosima placed the glass down, panting, and gasped, "What?"

Delphine shrugged nonchalantly. "I am coming over here for you." She lifted the marriage license application and waved it lackadaisically. "What am I getting in this arrangement?"

Cosima stared at her, then glanced down at her bran-speckled palm. With another wary glance at her interrogating betrothed, she swung out of the dining table chair and trekked into the kitchen space to wash her hands. 

She came back cleaner, calmer, and more confident in her skepticism. "Are you being serious?"

Delphine cocked an eyebrow. "Would you?"

Cosima leaned in the doorway and contemplated the question. Then contemplated some more.

"I like my name," she said at last, almost plaintively, not quite apologetically, perhaps as a question.

Delphine studied her, features impassive, seconds stretching until Cosima nearly shifted uncomfortably. Then she smiled, giving that little gasping laugh of hers, and said, "Cosima Cormier."

Cosima smiled back. "It's alliterative."

"You don't like it?" Delphine asked, head cocking inquisitively.

"Do you like Delphine Niehaus?" Cosima asked.

Delphine's features scrunched in immediate protest.

"Yeah," Cosima agreed. "It wouldn't be right if you weren't Dr. Cormier. And it'd just be confusing if we were both Dr. Cormier."

"Is that your reasoning?" Delphine probed.

Cosima tilted her head. "I don't want to own you or anything like that, just spend the rest of my life with you."

Delphine burst into laughter. "Nicely recovered."

"What?" Cosima said defensively, stung that Delphine had brushed off the genuine sentiment of her declaration. "I mean it."

Delphine softened, eyes still bright, but with a light that was fond and caressing. "I know." She tapped the empty spot at the table to summon Cosima back. Cosima trudged over, maybe just a bit grudgingly. When she sank back into her seat, Delphine stole her hand in hers.

She waited until she caught Cosima's gaze. " _Je t'aime aussi._ "

Cosima fought a smile and pouted with the force of doubled belligerence to suppress it. "Yeah?"

Delphine nodded, smiling easily, thumb tracing a comforting path across the back of Cosima's hand. " _Oui_."

Cosima forced the corners of her mouth down. "You're a jerk."

Delphine waited, expectant.

Cosima shook her head, smile breaking loose. "And I love you, too."

" _Bien sûr_ ," Delphine murmured and pressed a kiss to the corner of Cosima's mouth.

"Hey," Cosima said.

"What?" Delphine asked with an air of innocence.

"Jerk," Cosima declared and, in a proper demonstration, made sure to capture Delphine's grinning lips properly. 


	40. Little Details (Orphan Fringe)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 37 for a description of this Orphan Fringe AU.
> 
> April 17, 2015

Delphine stepped up behind Cosima seated at her desk and swept her fingers back along the side of Cosima's head, luxuriating as she always did in the feel of the short hairs shifting beneath her palm. Cosima stiffened at the unexpected touch, then leaned into her caress, not unlike a cat yearning for greater, prolonged contact.

"You need a trim, _ma chérie_ ," Delphine murmured, scritching lightly at the downy hairs above the temples of Cosima's plastic glasses frames, resisting an urge to muss up the mop of hair atop Cosima's crown, swept in a calculated, roguish wave across her forehead. The first time Delphine had laid eyes upon Cosima, the tips of her pixie cut had been a gradient of purples and reds. These days only the very ends boasted any hint of color, remnants from several religious hair trims, but for the temporary impulses that made Cosima declare time to time that she would grow out her hair.

(Cosima didn't. She couldn't stand the awkward length between buzzed short and extending toward bob and lacked patience, tolerance, and a degree of mortification to endure the transition. Besides, she claimed the pixie cut made life easier. Delphine had to admit that sometimes there seemed to be no notable delineation between "bedhead" and "styled.")

"I have an appointment scheduled for next week," Cosima said, rolling her head against Delphine's fingers to direct them to a specific spot. "So I can look good for the pictures."

Delphine smiled to herself.

"Maybe I should go to the stylist," she murmured, half suggestion, half tease.

"You need a trim?" Cosima asked, turning her head enough to capture Delphine in the peripheral of her vision.

"Maybe I should straighten it."

Cosima smiled. "I like it straight. That'd look nice."

Delphine's smile deepened. "Maybe I should cut it."

Cosima rolled her eyes. "Suuuuuure."

A short burst of furious scratches reprimanded Cosima's impertinence. "What? Only you can have short hair in this relationship?"

Cosima shook her head away from Delphine's scolding fingers. "No. I just know you. I mean, I better. I am marrying you."

The dodge flung Cosima's bangs rakishly over an eye. With practiced deftness, Delphine swept them out of Cosima's vision, mulling. "You know me so well, then, do you?"

Cosima stilled in consideration. "Well enough to know that I better not answer that in any way that would insinuate that I do."

A smile, torn between smug and amused, stole across Delphine's face as she indulged in another pass through Cosima's hair. She never tired of the sensation. Better than petting a cat. As she'd told Cosima, once. "Maybe you do know a thing or two."

Cosima's eyelids fluttered at the sensation of Delphine's touch. "So, uh, is now the time to mention that my parents maybe got the impression that we're going to have an actual commitment ceremony and that we're just registering our marriage now to get the paperwork started?"

Delphine's fingers curled, as if to clutch at Cosima, but not fully. "Okay. What did you tell them?"

"I kinda . . . didn't deny the notion."

"Is that because you want a big ceremony?"

"Not a big ceremony, but—it would be nice to have something everyone could attend, y'know?" Cosima paused, then added carefully, "Or not like everyone, but . . . I know my parents would like it."

Cosima left the door of suggestion open, on all topics: a ceremony, parents.

"What do you want?" Delphine asked, tone modulated to neutral. Her fingers played little circles in Cosima's short hair.

"I'd like it," Cosima said, "but I don't need it."

"It would take a lot more planning than going to the courthouse and sending a quick update to our friends."

"Yeah," Cosima agreed.

"It will cost a lot more, too."

Cosima grinned. "It doesn't have to be big. And my parents kinda insinuated they wouldn't mind hosting it in California."

Delphine's features screwed up. "How would they feel if we held it in France?"

"Dude, we're trying to get you here to the United States!" Cosima protested.

"You are," Delphine agreed. "I'm still open to the idea of you relocating to France."

"Okay," Cosima, raising a hand, which was a sure indication that a lengthy argument was to follow, "just from a practical point of view, it makes more sense for you, the multilingual, fluent one between us, to come here, than for me, continually told 'okay, that's enough trying to speak French,' to go there."

"I do not tell you that," Delphine defended herself. "If you applied yourself, you could learn it."

"Maybe— _maybe_ —just enough to get by, but I would never be as fluent as you are in English." Cosima cocked her head. "Would you really want to hold a ceremony in France?" 

Sadness and premature homesickness tugged at Delphine in equal parts. "Perhaps not. A honeymoon, though . . ."

"Another thing we haven't really talked about," pointed out Cosima.

"I didn't know how traditional you wanted to be," Delphine offered as explanation and excuse.

"It didn't seem like you wanted a big deal," Cosima lobbed back responsibility, "and I was okay with that."

"In short, there's a lot to talk about that we haven't talked about and probably should have," Delphine summarized.

"Sounds about right," Cosima chirped, eyes warm with laughter.

Delphine smiled fondly, the expression masking her next words. "My parents have not acknowledged I am marrying you. I don't think they would come to a ceremony, big or small."

Comprehension sinking in, Cosima's expression fell. "I didn't want to ask."

"I know," Delphine acknowledged.

"So does that mean ix-nay on the ceremony?" Cosima asked.

"I would not mind something small. Your parents, a few friends," Delphine allowed. "In the spring or the fall. Not too hot, not too cold."

Cosima brightened. "Okay. Any other restrictions?"

"Don't expect me to wear a tuxedo."

"Okay," Cosima conceded, slow and drawn out, "but you'd look hot."

Delphine didn't dignify the remark with a response. Of course, she would.

"And we should probably hold it here. For convenience."

"Done," Cosima agreed enthusiastically.

Delphine studied her beaming face and idly stroked at the little hairs at Cosima's nape. "You should have said something if you wanted a ceremony."

Cosima shrugged. "I was totally fine with just going to the courthouse next week, but if you're for having a ceremony, then I'm in. My parents'll love it." Her gaze softened. "They're thrilled I'm marrying you."

"Who isn't thrilled when their child marries a doctor?" Delphine scoffed.

Cosima smirked up at her. "You are so full of it."

"Mmm," Delphine hummed, leaning down. "But you like it."

"I kinda have to," Cosima retorted.

"Yes, you do," Delphine declared. "Will you wear a tuxedo?"

"Do you want me to?"

Delphine laughed. She'd expected an outright denial. "Only if you want to."

"Well, your wish is my command," Cosima returned the decision.

"We'll talk about it," Delphine demurred, brushing her lips across Cosima's, withdrawing enough to speak. "Later."

"Later," Cosima concurred, gaze on Delphine's hovering lips.

Cosima in a tuxedo would be unusual, maybe not quite right or familiar on a day meant to memorialize joining their lives together, but she would look hot. Of course. 


	41. We Found Paradise (Orphan Fringe)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 37 for a description of this Orphan Fringe AU.
> 
> April 23, 2015

With their rendezvous time approaching, a cure to puzzle over, and caution confining them to the apartment of the fabulous, exasperated, but clearly generous foster brother of a clone of Cosima’s parallel universe counterpart (“Which makes him practically my foster brother or something, right?”), there wasn’t much time to cater to other curiosities. Like all the ways their universes differed. 

“Bountiful” was how Cosima had described it with a lap overflowing with snacks purchased at a store called 7-Eleven. This side still had commodities that had become but memories in their own world taxed by dwindling arable land, climate calamities, and collapses in the fabric of space-time. They’d both marveled at the obscenely low price of coffee, sold by the cup and in cans and in bottles, and the sheer amount of produce in the market. 

“Let’s stay here,” Cosima had said.

“There’s already a you and me here, according to Beth.”

“And a bunch of other clones, right? No one’s gonna notice another me if no one has noticed the ten others already here. I’ve lived my whole life without meeting another person with my face, so we can totally make it work. We already have fake identities, thanks to Beth. Remind me to ask her how she managed these credit cards and passports.”

Delphine hadn’t dignified Cosima’s arguments with an answer, knowing that would lead them into a circular argument for argument’s sake rather than to the simple, self-evident answer: They couldn’t stay here. There was no place for them here.

Most definitely not in Felix’s apartment. Hospitality was wearing their host’s tolerance thin. It wasn’t just Cosima and herself, which Delphine now perceived was an added complication and inconvenience atop a heaping pile that was an ongoing covert affair that embroiled their counterparts. She and Cosima had gotten and gleaned sketchy details of powerful corporations, conglomerates, shadowy powers, and possibly overheard a mention of the military, but not much more than an outline of implications. Their hosts probably considered even that much fair exchange for the scant details she and Cosima provided in answer to their pointed questions, though that merely boiled down to the truth that she and Cosima didn’t know much more than they’d been able to clarify.

Not that it mattered. They’d come here to solve the mystery of the disease afflicting Cosima, not that of the annals of clone history. Though it was easy to see Cosima was just as interested in the latter as well; she enjoyed chatting up her counterpart during lulls. (To almost dizzying effect. They were both spirited hand talkers and Delphine found she couldn’t watch them conversing for overly long.) Delphine was mostly just glad that by serendipitous miracle their counterparts had recently uncovered the synthetic sequences that might be the root of the nightmare that had plagued their days for months now.

“Pretty coincidental, huh?” Cosima had said in that partly teasing, partly goading tone she used when she was ready to bait Delphine into a debate.

“Very,” Delphine had said curtly, far too sober to foolishly or willingly stumble into a philosophical battle. “Perfectly, for us.”

Unfortunately, having the sequence didn’t hand them a cure. Delphine was contemplating the portions of the sequence they’d written out on a board when Cosima got up and started to wander about the apartment. It was empty in the apartment but for them and almost eerily quiet as a consequence. Had they been at home, Delphine would have felt relaxed sunk into the cushions of the couch and grateful for the peaceful silence, but she felt every inch an imposition in this stranger’s domicile, and mindful of leaving too much of an imprint.

Cosima, however, didn’t necessarily share Delphine’s compunction. Delphine became aware of her a few minutes later, standing by a table with–

“Cosima,” Delphine said, turning her wife’s name into a crack of admonishment.

“What?” Cosima sang back innocently, running a finger along the record player.

“It’s not yours,” Delphine said warningly.

Cosima flashed a quick grin over her shoulder as she flicked the power button. The record stuttered into movement. Delphine sent her a pointed look. Cosima’s grin widened. Without looking, she carefully set the needle on the vinyl. Bass rumbled roaring out of the speakers, startling them both at the volume. Cosima scrabbled at knobs until one lowered the decibel levels to a level manageable and maybe barely noticeable to any neighbors.

“Sorry,” Cosima muttered, even managing to look sheepish.

“Felix has been very nice and accommodating to us,” Delphine began, letting the rest of the insinuation that they not use his things without his permission hang in her tone. 

Cosima selectively ignored her to concentrate on the layers of bleeps and bloops and synths bleeding out of the sound system. Her head bobbed to the beat. Delphine rolled her eyes.

“This is definitely your type of music,” Delphine said.

Cosima turned around, grin plastered on her face, and rolled her hips. Delphine crossed in arms in a show of stubborn unaffected indifference. Cosima held her hands out to Delphine. Delphine shook her head. Undeterred, Cosima undulated across the floor, beckoning. Delphine crossed her arms, then her legs at the knees, a fortress girding against assault.

But Cosima was never one to confront with force. She found Delphine’s hands first, fingers light and threading through Delphine’s, pulling and tugging gently. Delphine glared back. Cosima tugged again, more demandingly, and with a sigh Delphine uncurled to her feet. She let Cosima work, the music insinuating beneath her wife’s skin, muscles loose and flowing, the rhythm in her feet. When Cosima put her hands on her hips, Delphine let their push and pull rock her into the tempo, bringing her hands up to run through Cosima’s hair, daringly mussing it every which way, and draped her arms on Cosima’s shoulders, inviting her closer. 

Cosima smiled up at her, the brightness in her eyes behind her glasses the same animated light that had slowly but surely ensnared Delphine into a commitment she’d had no intention of making.

“Do you remember Flare?” Cosima asked lowly.

Delphine cocked her head. “You mean your birthday?”

Cosima’s lips crooked in a smile. “Yeah.”

“Your birthday where you dragged me out, though I had just flown in that night?”

“I didn’t drag you out,” Cosima protested. “I asked if you wanted to go.”

“For your birthday,” Delphine reiterated.

“Yeah.”

“Because I could have said no on your birthday.”

“You could have!” Cosima exclaimed.

“Uh huh,” Delphine said skeptically. She checked a laugh and spun Cosima around, pulling her in close and crossing their arms around Cosima’s middle. She lowered her mouth by Cosima’s ear.

“All I remember,” she said softly, “is body shots.” She brushed her lips along Cosima’s shoulder, up the side of her neck as Cosima turned her head to accommodate her. “So many body shots.”

Cosima was quiet but Delphine could feel the unevenness of her breaths. Delphine smiled to herself.

“And,” she added, “that good-looking guy who kept hitting on me, who wanted to take me home.”

Cosima wriggled in her grasp. “You jerk.”

Delphine smiled into Cosima’s shoulder, indulging a laugh in her throat. “But I went home with you.”

“You had to. You were crashing at my place.”

“Yes, sure, just like I had to go out with you for your birthday.”

Cosima tilted her head back so that it rested on Delphine’s shoulder. She looked thoughtful. “You know, I wondered—you flirted with that guy.”

“Mmhm.”

“I thought you might go home with him, actually.”

Delphine was quiet, swaying them both at a speed half of the tempo.

“You didn’t,” Cosima pointed out, “but did you think about it?”

Delphine maintained her silence. Cosima turned her head to try to look at her.

“I’m not going to hold it against you if you did,” she said. “It was a long time ago.”

“I don’t really remember,” Delphine replied, mostly honest. “Too many body shots, thanks to somebody.” She rocked Cosima in a shake. Cosima wiggled back. “But I had told you that I didn’t do relationships and I could tell you wanted one, no matter what you said, so—” Delphine shrugged.

“So you thought about going home with him to prove your point,” Cosima finished.

“But it would have been very awkward to do that at the start of my visit,” Delphine teased. “Especially since I was staying with you.”

“Ha ha,” Cosima said drily. “But the joke’s on you—I got you to commit.”

Delphine hugged her close, standing there in that strange, empty apartment, wearing the ring Cosima had slipped on her finger, terribly attached to the warmth and weight in her arms. “Yes. You did.”


	42. Heartbreaker's Remorse (Cosima, Delphine[, Shay])

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I really did try to figure out Shay's place in all this. Not that it mattered in the end.
> 
> May 10, 2015

"Your, um, your blood test results look very good."

"Yeah. The stem cell treatment actually works—go figure. We didn't even need to ask Kira for her bone marrow."

Delphine suppressed a wince.

"It's not a cure, though,” Cosima continued. “We're—the lab's—trying to cook up a viable gene therapy treatment. You've probably seen those reports."

Delphine nodded, mindful not to break eye contact. Cosima was prodding and poking with sharp, pointed words, trying to score a hit or find a sore. This was how she was with her back to a wall or when she felt burned: offensive as a means of defense. Delphine knew that all too well.

"How are you?" Delphine asked carefully.

"I feel good," Cosima said, interlacing her fingers and pressing them across her middle. "Really good."

She sounded good. She hadn’t coughed once through their pleasantries and she’d sauntered into Delphine’s office with almost a jaunty, arrogant bounce in her step.

"And," Delphine asked slowly, "everything else?"

Cosima cocked her head. "Whaddya mean?"

Delphine hesitated. "You're—seeing someone?"

Cosima's eyebrows lifted. "How do you know that?"

Delphine spread her hands, not an answer, but an acknowledgement of what they'd always been: monitor and subject, researcher and experiment, bound by rules of observation and a mutually understood status quo. It was Delphine’s job to know the details of Cosima’s life, of all the clones’ lives.

"That's really creepy," Cosima said at last. She looked less disturbed than Delphine would have assumed, as if she were less concerned about the invasion of privacy and more curious about the means and logistics. "Who's reporting to you? Because you're not my monitor anymore—you're not even in town half the time anymore. The monitors report to you, but I don’t have a monitor, so—how?"

Delphine smiled tight-lipped. "You didn't answer my question."

"Oh.” Cosima waved a hand dismissively. “I thought that was obvious: Yeah."

Delphine didn't flinch.

When she didn't comment, Cosima added, "I'm giving it a try."

"Don't you think that," Delphine said slowly, "that's a bit unfair?"

"To who?" Cosima fired back. "To you?"

"To her," Delphine said. "I assume you haven't told her anything."

"We're just dating, Delphine," Cosima said shortly. "I'm not marrying her or anything. I'm—checking out the scene."

"But you—" Delphine moistened her lips. "You like her?"

Cosima shrugged. "Yeah. She's nice. She, uh, knows what she wants."

"You like her," Delphine repeated, conscious she'd put emphasis on "like" but unable to help herself.

"Yeah," Cosima responded. If Delphine had set out bait, Cosima wasn't taking it. "She's different."

"From me," Delphine prodded quietly.

"From me," Cosima clarified, her own trap snapping shut around Delphine. "She's not like me. Or you."

Delphine's jaw worked against the tension that was setting in its joints.

"You don't get to do this," Cosima said quietly, voice growing textured, the flippancy evaporating. "You broke up with me."

"To protect you," Delphine said, with too much heat. "Because I love you."

"You broke up with me," Cosima said again, slowly. "You made that choice for us. For me. You didn't ask me how I felt. You didn’t care that I love you. You just did it. Like you always do."

Her words sent a searing ache through Delphine's heart—then Delphine's brain processed Cosima's words. "Love?"

Cosima shrugged. "I'm working on it."

"I—"

Cosima shook her head and raised a hand to cut Delphine off. "Would you share me?"

"What?" Delphine asked, taken aback.

"Could you do that? Share me with someone? If I said I like Shay and I like you, could you do that?"

Delphine's jaw worked.

"Maybe monogamy's not a thing we’re actually supposed to be doing." Cosima shrugged. "Despite all the social pressure, biological facts suggest it isn't."

Delphine's ears burned. "Are you doing this to punish me?"

The laughter that burst out of Cosima was light and gentle. "You think this is about you?” Cosima shook her head. “Dude, life's too short for that. I'm just—" Her hands waved in an effort to put an explanation into words. "I'm trying to live." She met Delphine's eyes. "I can't wait for you. I can't wait for you to decide when it's okay for you to love me and when it's not or how you should love me, when I know what I want is to be with you. I know now that—that any day could be the last day."

Cosima had cracked open a door. Now she waited, expectant, for Delphine to decide if she wanted to walk through it. But Delphine had never had a weakness before, something that she understood as an attachment that would hold her back. Ambition had fueled her and there had never been a collateral consideration before that had held her back or made her rethink.

Until Cosima.

Delphine didn't know how to navigate this obstacle and still progress with herself, with them, intact.

"It would be better for her," Delphine said carefully, "that she not find out about what you are."

Cosima tried hard to look not disappointed, but she had never hid her emotions well. Delphine had found that openness refreshing, such a contrast to how she herself had maneuvered through her choices, her relationships. "I'll try but—you know what my life's like now. There’s a good chance she’ll run into Sarah—or Alison."

Delphine almost smiled, because it was too true, because this woman who’d been captivated by the same charms she had been in Cosima had no idea what might be coming. "If you need anything and I'm not here, just let my staff know."

Cosima nodded brusquely, not looking at her. "Yeah."

"And should there be any change in your health, our medical staff here is on standby. Call and we can have our paramedics retrieve you at any time."

Cosima nodded mechanically, too many times. "Okay. Got it."

"I think that's all?" Delphine said quietly, masking the dull ache in her chest.

"Yup," Cosima said, standing sharply. She looked anywhere but at Delphine. "I gotta see Dr. Nealon now. I'll let myself out." She made for the door, but stopped at its glass panel. She glanced over her shoulder. "I'll see you around." It was almost a question.

Delphine nodded. "Take care, Cosima."

"Ciao."

Then she was gone.


	43. Baggage (Cosima, Shay)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May 12, 2015

Shay pulled away and Cosima, eyes still closed, rolled her lips inward to catch the taste on her tongue. It was—not wrong—just not . . . Delphine. Just as the kiss hadn't been bad, just not . . . Delphine. Delphine, whose kisses had been underlyingly insistent, as if with her lips she were trying to prove . . . something.

(That she was into Cosima, hungry for her, eager to embrace a foray into the niceties and mechanics of loving a woman.)

This kiss, though, held its own echo of familiarity. A softness, an assertion, a question, a proposal.

It was how Cosima had kissed Delphine that first time. 

And that was everything strange and reversed and weird and what the hell was she doing?

"I can't," Cosima said, shaking her head, apologetic.

Shay, leaning in to observe Cosima's reaction, eased away. "No?"

Cosima waved a hand. "I—"

Explanations and excuses leapt up ready and lined up:

_I just got out of a relationship. My ex is my boss and I still have to see her occasionally. She's blonde, like you, but tall, and I don't know if—_

_I'm sick. No, not like cancer, but tumors, yes, it's an autoimmune disease, I don't know if you understand, we don't really know what it is yet, but we're working on it, but someone's already died from it, and I almost—_

_I'm a clone, no, really, and this super mega corporation made a whole line of girl clones in secret and I've got a bunch of genetic identical sisters out there in the world that I've never even met and a few I'm working with to try to figure everything out and there are a bunch of boy clones that the military made and they're our brothers and I don't know what—_

"I've got a lot going on right now," Cosima finished lamely.

Shay searched her face. "Okay."

"I don't know if I'm ready for a relationship."

Shay nodded. "Okay."

"It's not—it's not you. You're amazing, but—" Cosima's jaw worked, head shaking side to side lightly.

Shay's eyes narrowed. "Are you okay?"

Cosima took a breath.

_No, I'm dying. I'm scared of dying. That this is all there is._

Cosima dropped her gaze to her lap, one hand cupping the other palm up. "I guess I'm just looking for—something."

"What?" Shay asked.

Cosima shrugged. "Answers?"

Shay laughed, the sound gentle. "To what?"

"I don't know." Cosima glanced up. "To life?"

Shay smiled. "That's all?"


	44. If It's Not You, It's Me (Cosima, Shay)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May 18, 2015

The blue-encased cell phone let out a ring. In concert, Cosima and Shay glanced at it, both of them weighing factors long enough that it rang again.

"I gotta take this," Cosima said, apologetic, as she scooped the phone off the tabletop, got up, and wandered away to a private corner. Shay pressed her lips together and raked the tines of her fork through the spinach leaves remaining on her plate.

"Sorry," Cosima said when she returned and took her seat. As she resettled, Shay turned her fork in circles. Cosima saw her troubled expression.

"You okay?" Cosima asked hesitantly.

Shay smiled, tight-lipped. "Everything okay with you? Was it work?"

Cosima hesitated. "Yeah. Something like that. I had to answer some questions, but everything seems okay."

Shay nodded slowly. Sadness dipped the corners of her mouth and her blue eyes were somber and frank when they found Cosima's. "This isn't going to work."

"What?" Cosima said, startled.

Shay shook her head. "You're sweet and smart and funny, but—you're hiding something. I like you but—I don't know if I'm okay with my partner keeping secrets."

Cosima digested Shay's words, surprised by the twist in her gut, the impulse to deny an observation she knew to be true. She tamped down a burst of irritation and annoyance. "So . . . that's it?"

"I'm not going to barge into places you're not going to permit me, Cosima," Shay said quietly, "but that doesn't mean I'm okay with being left on the outside."

"Okay," Cosima said tersely, refusing to look at the other woman.

After a moment, the scraping of a chair alerted her that Shay had gotten to her feet. Shay lingered, studying her. "If you need a friend . .  ." She moved as if to touch Cosima, then decided against it. "You know where to find me."

Cosima said nothing, jaw tight, locked into stony silence. Then Shay was gone and Cosima could only stew.

*

The knock at her door that evening surprised Shay. She wasn't expecting company.

She peered through the peephole, drew back, considered, then slowly opened the door.

"Cosima," she said, leaning in the doorway, the name put forth as identifier, question, and barrier.

"Hey," Cosima said, arms wound tightly around her middle. She looked into Shay's face, then down at the floor.

Shay waited. 

"Okay, here's the thing," Cosima started, then stopped.

Shay waited.

"So, like, before, with Delphine," Cosima said, almost staccato, "I kept telling myself that it was her, y'know, that we didn't work because of the things she wanted and the things she did."

Shay nodded.

"Like, she broke up with me, but it was because she was—worried about work. And how us being together would affect that. Like, she thought that being together would . . . would hold her back and stop her from doing what—what she thought she needed to do."

Shay nodded.

"But, like, if _you_ break up with me, then the problem is—it's me. It's my life. And—and I don't know how I'm supposed to understand that. Is this how it's always gonna be for me?" Cosima hugged herself tighter. "I meet someone new and I have to hide from her?"

Shay regarded her, at a loss. "I don't know, Cosima. I don't know what you're hiding." She hesitated. "I don't know what you're afraid of."

Cosima sighed and hung her head. "Yeah. I know."

For a moment, Shay remained expressionless, then she smiled, sad, but touched with fondness. "You want to come in for a cup of tea?"

Cosima's head snapped up. "Seriously?"

Shay chuckled. "Yeah. Any kind you want. If you want to talk, we can talk. If you don't—" She shrugged. "I've got Netflix."

Cosima hesitated. “Have you seen _Cosmos_?”

“The old one or the new one?” Shay asked.  


Cosima grinned.

“That was a trick question,” Shay confessed. “I haven’t seen either.”  


“We gotta fix that,” Cosima said.

“I was going to suggest _Man on Wire_ ,” Shay said as she stepped aside to admit Cosima.  


“What’s that?”  


“A documentary.”  


“Good?”  


“It’s about a man who strung a wire between the World Trade Center twin towers and tightrope walked on it.”  


“Whoa.”  


“Right?”  


Cosima smiled, but it quickly faded. “Is this okay? Can we really be friends?”

Shay shrugged. “It’s okay with me. There’s only one way to find out if we can be friends—we have to try.”

Cosima nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Shay smiled. “Okay.”


	45. Random Shay, Cosima conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May, June, July 2015

“Do animals have souls?”

“Some people think so. Buddhism holds that we may be reborn as animals.”

“Do plants have souls?”

“In Hinduism, yes, in that you can be reborn as a plant.”

“Do rocks have souls?”

“Okay, are you just making fun of me now, o’ hard scientist?”

Cosima chuckled, poking her tongue against the back of her front teeth.

Shay eyed her sideways. “I’m not doing this if you’re going to be a brat about it.”

“Okay, okay,” Cosima conceded. She regarded Shay from her own curious angle. “Do you think twins have separate souls or are they, like, one soul divided?”

Shay studied Cosima, that piercing, searching look that was almost like she could look into a soul, but Cosima had a feeling she was trying to gauge Cosima’s level of sincerity. Shay’s brow creased. “That’s an interesting question. I think … I don’t see why they wouldn’t have separate souls.”

“You think machines could ever have souls?” Cosima pressed. “Like if we achieved artificial intelligence and they could think for themselves and attain free will–would that mean they’ve attained souls?”

Shay appeared momentarily stumped, eyebrows furrowing. “Do you think that could really happen? That machines can learn to feel things like emotions and pain?”

“Are those the things that indicate we have souls, that we’re more than just axons, neurons, and electrical signals regulating impulses and bodily functions?” Cosima wondered.

“I don’t know,” Shay admitted.

“Then how do you know we have souls?” Cosima wondered.

“I feel it,” Shay said.

Cosima eyed her skeptically, not sold, but not entirely dismissive. “That doesn’t seem quantifiable.”

Shay smiled. “Not everything is. How do you measure joy, sadness, love, or grief?”

“Hormone levels,” Cosima said, without missing a beat.

Shay laughed. When she calmed down, she said, “You were right.”

“About feelings being quantifiable?” Cosima wondered.

“No, that you are annoyingly the hard scientist.”

“But you like it?” Cosima hazarded, skirting daringly between a question and a statement.

Shay gave her one of those long studies, not disconcerting, really, but patient and still. At last, she said, “I like a challenge.”

Cosima smiled. “I won’t be easy.”

Shay leaned closed, into Cosima’s space. “It wouldn’t be a challenge if you were.”

Cosima studied her lips. “Mmm. So you are capable of logic.”

“You’re hilarious,“ Shay murmured dryly, then kissed her.

* * *

“You want to talk about it?” Shay asked quietly, after, because after was the time Cosima had said she’d want to talk about it.

Cosima, tired or worn out or both, frowned a little and shrugged. “Work is … crazy. Like ‘I should probably stop going in late’ crazy.”

Shay smirked. “Probably?”

Cosima gave a little shake of her head. “Punctuality isn’t really my thing.”

“And is that why …,” Shay swept a dreadlock off a bare shoulder, “you came here to suggest we slow down?”

Cosima, with no glasses to filter her gaze, studied Shay long and silently under the focus of narrowed eyes. “I saw Delphine today.”

“Ah,” Shay breathed out before she could stop herself, breaking eye contact.

“She … read me the riot act.”

Shay nodded.

“Shay.”

Shay lifted her eyes and risked a look through her lashes.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Cosima said lowly.

Shay weighed the news, searching the empty space beyond Cosima’s shoulder. “Okay.”

“But,” Cosima said, trying to find her eyes again, “I’m trying to be honest with you.”

That was something, wasn’t it, from this sometimes evasive, sometimes babbling woman whose heart, Shay had thought, hung so precariously on her sleeve?

Didn’t it?

“Okay,” Shay conceded. “But if you want to talk about it–”

“I know.” Cosima reached up and swept Shay’s disheveled hair behind her ear. “Thanks.”

* * *

Shay curled into Cosima’s side and lay her head upon her bare shoulder. Cosima held her in place with her arm, fingertips ghosting along Shay’s bicep, her touch as well as the play of her muscles beneath Shay’s cheek lulling and electrifying all at once in the unfamiliarity of a new physique but the comfort of a warm body. Reaching up, Shay snagged Cosima’s hand and, turning a bit to get a better look, held up her captured prize to study. Her thumb tracked across Cosima’s palm, prompting Cosima to spread her fingers obligingly.

“What are you looking at?” Cosima mumbled.

Shay traced the curving line close to Cosima’s thumb. “Your lifeline.”

Cosima made a little sound that could have been an aborted snort or an amused laugh or a delighted snuffle, Shay wasn’t sure yet how to read these cues, made harder without visual clues. “Mm, yeah? What’s it telling you?” 

Shay made a show of scrutinizing the crease in Cosima’s palm intently, turning Cosima’s hand–now loose and relaxed, but the memory of its firm touch still so recent in memory that a tingle spread down Shay’s thigh–this way and that. “I don’t know. I can’t read palms.”

Cosima laughed. “Then why are you looking?”

Shay held her free hand up against Cosima’s, sliding it up against the smooth expanse until they fit palm to palm. They were both of a height, really, if slightly different in body shapes, but there was knowledge beneath the skin not easily discernible, like the strength in Cosima’s fingers when they gripped Shay’s hips or the way Shay preferred the exploration of Cosima’s neck or the patient search for the spots most sensitive, the places that could elicit little gasps or sharp intakes of breath.

“I can’t just look? Isn’t that what scientists do? Observe?”

“Are you trying to be a scientist?”

“If I follow your example, all I have to do is be mysterious. The unknown nature of my study will make it inherently intriguing.”

Cosima’s chuckle reverberated through Shay’s bones. “Intriguing, but not useful or informative. Not that empirical either, if that’s your starting point.”

Shay smiled, though Cosima couldn’t see it. She slid her palm down, following the lifeline again with her fingers, noting the break in its trajectory. “How long have you had that cough?”

Cosima shrugged, shifting Shay with the movement. “A few weeks? Since I got to Toronto? Maybe it’s the city, the crisp northern Canadian air.”

Shay rolled her eyes. “Okay, all American girl.” She poked the middle of Cosima’s palm. Cosima’s fingers closed like a trap, gripping Shay loosely. “Have you seen a doctor about it?”

“Yup.”

“What did they say?”

Cosima was quiet for longer than Shay expected. “They’re not really sure what’s causing it, but hopefully it’ll clear up.”

“Are you taking anything for it?”

Shay felt Cosima shake her head. “There’s nothing for me to take.”

Shay regarded their tangled hands for a few thoughts, reviewing what supplies she had in stock, what she might need to buy, then broke free and covered Cosima’s hand with hers, letting them all fall together. “Okay.”

“All done observing?”

“For now.”

“Okay. That’s good. Good night,” Cosima said with all the long hours’ drowsiness heavy in her voice.

Shay swallowed a laugh and instead brought Cosima’s hand up to her lips, brushed a kiss across her knuckles, ignoring the kick of her heart over the twist in her gut, a drowned sense of caution, and closed her eyes. “Good night.”

* * *

Cosima shut her laptop when she felt the bed dip beside her under Shay’s weight. Turning to survey her companion seated on the edge of the bed, she caught the dropping of Shay’s eyebrows.

“What?” she asked as Shay held out a glass of juice to her. She took it, asking, “More?”

“Until that cough goes away, yep,” Shay said cheerfully, smiling. “There’s more in the fridge.”

Cosima smiled to herself and backtracked. “Okay. But what was that look for?”

“What look?” Shay asked. 

Cosima wagged her eyebrows in a mimicry of exasperation or amusement or, probably since it was coupled with the smirk on her face, teasing. “That look.”

Shay shook her head slightly, but with a smile. “Nothing.”

Cosima answered with expectant silence. True, it was usually Shay prodding her to share, but she was getting the gist of poking back. Shay made a little sound like a sigh, shoulders dropping in acknowledgement. 

“I was just thinking,” Shay said slowly, “that you don’t have to hide your work from me. I don’t … get it.”

Cosima grinned. “You might be just saying that.”

Shay’s brow crinkled. “So I’m just pretending to play dumb … because?”

Cosima shrugged. “The material I’m working on is … sensitive. Proprietary.” 

Shay nodded gamely. “Top secret research on black holes.”

“Yeah, yeah, exactly,” Cosima agreed playfully.

“And I’m … what? A corporate spy?”

“Maybe,” Cosima allowed.

“That’s … Well, I mean if you think about it, that’d be pretty amazing if I arranged to meet you on a dating website in order to steal corporate secrets.” Shay’s expression turned thoughtful. “I would have had to have known who you were and where you worked.”

“Yeah,” Cosima agreed. “Did you?”

Shay scoffed. “No.”

“You sure?” Cosima pressed, perhaps more ardently than she’d intended, because Shay’s regard sharpened, growing more attentive.

“I’m pretty sure,” Shay said softly.

It was probably wild paranoia on Cosima’s part that made her feel uneasy and hesitant still, but a part of her reasoned that her paranoia regarding Delphine had proven correct. But she thought of Alison, too, whose paranoia had led her to suspect a bevy of persons, one after another. and wondered if she was stumbling down the same path of groundless suspicions.

“That still doesn’t sound one hundred percent positive,” Cosima said with as much levity as she could.

Shay rolled her eyes. “Is science even that precise?”

“Well,” Cosima said, “it’s about reducing the numbers of possibilities and margin of error until you can get as close to certain as possible.”

“Uh huh.”

“And anyway I probably shouldn’t bring work over to your place,” Cosima concluded lamely.

That returned the smile to Shay’s face. “I don’t mind. I know how busy you are.”

“Yeah, but … you don’t bring home work.”

Shay cocked her head. “Not like this,” she said, reaching over to tap Cosima’s closed laptop, “no.”

“What do you mean?” Cosima asked, setting her laptop aside. 

Shay rubbed absently at the bedcovers. “I’m not crunching numbers and equations like you, or whatever it is you do. It’s more like … it’s hard for me to stop thinking about my clients and their needs and what else I can do to help them. It can be …”

“Consuming?” Cosima offered.

Shay nodded. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

Honestly, that didn’t sound all that different from pondering questions of biology and genetics from waking until sleep. 

“I get it,” Cosima said. She dropped her gaze into the depths of the orange-red juice. “Am I on that list of people whose concerns worry you?”

“Maybe.”

Cosima looked up and caught Shay’s smirk.

“Not a top concern,” Shay added. “Maybe not even top ten.”

“Yeah?” Cosima said through a smile.

“Oh, for sure,” Shay said flippantly.

“Good,” Cosima said. “I wouldn’t want to worry you.”

Shay’s bright eyes did that slow study of her face. “Maybe it’s not worry you make me feel.”

“Yeah? What, then?”

Shay leaned toward her. “Maybe it’s …”

“What?” whispered Cosima, nearly brushing Shay’s lips with her own. The question made Shay smile, just for a second, before she kissed Cosima slow and patiently, the contact light, teasing, restrained–suggestive.

“That,” Shay finished, pulling back and keeping away though Cosima pursued her blindly for a beat.

Cosima considered Shay’s mouth. “Okay. I think that’s … better than worry.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Shay’s lips curved, challenging, inviting. “Then show me.”

* * *

“Aren’t beetles insects?” Shay asked.

“Yeah,” Cosima answered. “Why?”

“You keep calling my Beetle a bug. Shouldn’t you call it an insect?” Shay smiled at her. “I thought you were a biologist.” 

“Microbiologist,” Cosima corrected absently. She cocked her head. “Are you getting pedantic on me?”

Shay considered her, lips tight around what might have been a smile. “Is it working for you?”

Cosima didn’t quite frown. “… A little bit.”

Shay smiled. “Then yeah.”

“Okay,” Cosima said slowly, not-smiling herself, “but your car is a VW bug, not something from the order Coleoptera.”

Shay narrowed her eyes at her for a drawn out second. “You just knew that off the top of your head.”

“Yup.”

“If I Google that, it’s actually a thing.”

“Yup.”

“I … probably shouldn’t try something like this again in the future.”

“Well,” Cosima hedged, “I wouldn’t say that.”

Shay’s eyes went slitted with puzzlement. “No?”

“I thought it was cute.”

“Are you being condescending?” Shay asked, the edge in her voice falling on the fine line between playful and suspicious.

“No!” Cosima protested. “I’m being appreciative.”

“Not doing it for me,” Shay declared, but sidling closer, eyes intent on Cosima’s.

“No?”

No,“ Shay said bluntly, but within far too close proximity to be repelled by Cosima’s behavior. “I think I need to stop you.”

“Yeah?” Cosima prompted.

Shay nodded, near enough for Cosima to make out the gradients of blues in her eyes.

“How?” Cosima whispered.

Shay smirked, hovering, lips centimeters from Cosima’s, pausing just long enough to make Cosima doubt, before kissing her, slow but light, leaving the imprint of the sensation of her lips on Cosima’s mouth when she pulled away.

Cosima bit her lip, eyes searching Shay’s sparkling eyes. “If that’s all that earns me, I’m going to have to be way more intolerable.”

Shay’s gaze lit with laughter. “Oh no, we can’t have that.”

“Nope,” Cosima agreed, cupping Shay’s cheek as she leaned into Shay’s grin. “No one wants that.”

* * *

“Aren’t you too young to be this zen?” Cosima asked without preamble.

“What?” Shay responded, an uncertain laugh underlining her confusion.

[[MORE]]

Cosima was quiet, arranging her thoughts. She’d woken that morning to find Shay’s blurry humanoid silhouette lump seated cross-legged on the living room floor. Silent. Unmoving. 

Meditating.

Cosima had felt hushed just looking at her.

When Cosima’s silence had stretched overlong, Shay offered an amused smile.

“It’s a phase,” she said, intonation heavy, akin to the tone she adopted when quoting, but laced with sarcastic condescension. 

Cosima didn’t cringe, but she took the hint. “I guess I’m not the first one to say that.”

Shay shrugged. “I guess it could be a phase, one that could go one of two ways.”

Cosima have her a questioning look.

“It could be a phase,” Shay said slowly, “like my party days in college, or it could be a phase like my being a lesbian.”

“Oh,” Cosima said, the word inadequate to capture her surprise. “You were a party girl in college?”

Shay laughed. “Maybe.”

Cosima adopted a mock frown. “What happened to that girl?”

“Oh, I think parts of her have stuck around,” Shay said airily. “You’ve might have had a brush with her. Or two.”

Cosima grinned. “I like her.”

Shay’s eyes flashed. “She likes you.”

Cosima let that hang between them. Sobered, she said, “What if it is a phase, like being a party animal?”

Shay shrugged. “Then I move on.”

“It’s that simple for you?” Cosima wondered.

“No, but I know I’m capable,” Shay said simply. Her voice took on that gentle cadence of quotation: “This too shall pass.”

They looked at each other wordlessly for a time, Cosima searching, Shay waiting.

“How do you cherish anything if at any moment you can give it up?” Cosima asked at last.

Shay laughed. “I’m not detached. I try to live in the moment.”

“So the trick’s not to look too far ahead?”

Smiling, Shay shook her head. “I don’t know. I said I try.”

Cosima smiled. “Okay, so you’re definitely too young to be that zen.”

“But zen enough to deal with you,” Shay fired back.

Cosima grinned. “Then the perfect amount of zen.”

* * *

(The following one was written for the SCOTUS Obergefell decision.)

“So you’re … American?”

“Dual citizenship,” Shay said shortly. “Mom’s Canadian. Dad’s American. It made being with them both after the divorce kind of hard.”

“Ah.”

“Why?”

“At first I was like, because, you know, Delphine did that background check, ‘How did Shay serve in the US military if she’s Canadian?’”

“Okay,” Shay said slowly when Cosima didn’t continue. “And then?”

“Then I was like, 'Well, that kinda sucks if she’s not Canadian because that would make any marriage thing easier.’ But now …”

Shay laughed. “I hate the winters up here.”

Cosima grinned. “Minnesota is pretty bad, too, but California can get pretty nice. I think so, anyway.”

Shay waggled her eyebrows. “There’s always Barcelona.”

“For a honeymoon?”

“Well …”

Cosima laughed. “For a honeymoon.”

Shay leveled her with a look. “Think about it.”

Cosima met Shay’s eyes with a quiet air. “I am.”

* * *

“Your couch sucks. It’s, like, not even a couch.”

“You didn’t complain that time we didn’t have to move from the couch to the bed.”

“It sucks when I want to use it as an actual couch.”

“The other day you were stretched out on the floor when you could have sat on the couch, claiming it gave you more space.”

“The floor is better when I don’t feel like using a couch. But when I want to sit on a couch, I’d like it to function as a couch.”

“It functions just fine when you use it right.”

“The back fell over all by itself!”

“But it hasn’t yet fallen over when you were leaning on it.”

“Please note your use of ‘yet.’ That qualifier shouldn’t enter the equation.”

“And you shouldn’t sit on the couch incorrectly.”

“What correct way is there to sit on a couch?”

“The way that doesn’t make the back fall over.”

“It shouldn’t be prone to falling over! Just admit your couch falls short of full couch-y-ness.”

“Never.”

“… You really love your possessions, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not very zen.”

“Stop trying to make me zen.”

“You’re trying to make _me_ zen!”

“No, I’m trying to get you healthy.”

“With zen.”

“No, with honeydew. Will you stop, sit properly on the couch, and let me make breakfast?”

Cosima grinned. “Yes, ma'am.”

Shay shook her head. “Good. And none of that 'yes, ma'am’ stuff, please.”

“Got it. Just gonna sit here, not break your not-couch couch, eat your honeydew—”

“Oh my God.”

“Like a good girl.”

“Because you’re such a good girl,” drawled Shay.

Cosima’s eyes sparkled above her grin. “You know it.”


	46. Apples and Oranges (Cosima, Shay, Delphine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> June 3, 2015

Cosima could admit, in the privacy of her own thoughts, that the terrible and wonderful thing about being with Shay was that it was nothing like being with Delphine. From the way Shay held herself or sat or stood at a height that kept her at eye level, to the color of her eyes and her choice of lip gloss, to the cadence of her speech and the topics of their conversations, to the feel of her lips and the little sounds she made in her throat when they kissed, about the only point of overlap was that, yeah, Delphine and Shay were both blonde.

It was different with Shay. Shay wanted to know everything, anything that Cosima might answer, all the things Cosima couldn’t share, about her job, her acquaintances in the city, her health, her nature, in a way that made Cosima realize how easy it had been that Delphine had already known basic details, despite how Delphine had already known. And yet, too, it made her see how carefully Delphine had danced around this fact, how that dubious history had wedged between them invisible but growing to forbid the broaching of sensitive subjects: Sarah’s activities, hiring Scott, the source of the stem cells used in treatment, even how Delphine had brought her the news of Leekie’s death only after first visiting Sarah. 

In Shay’s curiosity, Cosima heard the absence of Delphine’s.

Maybe Delphine had had no reason to be curious. Hadn’t she said that she’d seen Cosima’s tag number, 324B21, many times? Had she paged through the chapters of Cosima’s life as easily as sorting through her medical records?

Cosima had never asked.

Not that she hadn’t wondered.

She simply didn’t know how she might have reacted to one answer or the other.

Because Cosima knew that curiosity, knew that if circumstances had been different, if her health and the health of the others weren’t priority, she would want to know—everything, yes, about their origins and their biology, everything she could winnow out of Dyad, if even initially but a glimpse at the larger picture, names, photographs, locations, histories, these facets that separated her and her genetic identicals, that mapped how nurture could spin out far from nature or kept them in close orbit.

Had Delphine taken that journey?

Hadn’t Cosima, into Delphine’s history? Hadn’t she gone digging, hunting for snippets and documents, the landmarks and milestones of accomplishments and setbacks, the decisions and considerations, the divergences in the paths that led to Dyad, to Cosima, to them? Hadn’t she sought fire to fight fire, playing the same game, thinking knowledge was power, arming herself against the worst case scenario?

She hadn’t imagined this scenario, hadn’t known that the worst could be worse, that emptiness could ache, radiating hurt that bled sometimes slow, sometimes fast, tainting. She hadn’t, really, imagined it would come to any of that.

She wished she could forget it all.

She couldn’t. But maybe she could bury it. Beneath the assured clutch of Shay’s fingers upon her thigh, the dry taste of white wine on the tongue against hers, in the act of surrender to the soft, whispered unaccented inquiries—“Is that okay? Like that? ”—she answered with wordless nods and encouraging strokes through Shay’s hair, the texture different from Delphine’s (though perhaps not now, no, don’t think about that), the bump and tickle of any of an assortment of necklaces marking Shay’s trails along her body, and the scent laid upon Shay’s skin, something closer to incense and oils than the notes of perfume and cigarette smoke. 

New sensations to mask old ones. Analogies to overwrite vocabularies of desire. Repetition to make them stick.

It was different.

Nice. Wonderful, in its way.

(But what she had had with Delphine had been nice and wonderful, too, and maybe it was a nice and wonderful she still wanted, but maybe a nice and wonderful she could never have again.)


	47. Supernatural Poly Adventure Time (Cosima, Shay, Delphine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So in that period post-Season 3, when Delphine seemed consigned to death, I had a really silly idea:
> 
> What if the ghost of Delphine haunted Shay and Shay was the only one who could communicate with Delphine?
> 
> What resulted was the short-lived Supernatural Poly Adventure Time.
> 
> June & July 2015

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> = … = denotes ghost speech for the time being because brackets were interpreted as HTML code. Only Shay can hear ghost speech. Because reasons.

“Let me get this straight,” Cosima said lowly. “You’re–you can–you think you can hear Delphine’s ghost?”

Shay sighed. “Yes.”

Cosima stared at her with the skepticism, incredulity, disbelief, and worry Shay imagined had been on her face when Delphrisine had invaded her home. In the flesh, anyway. As the silence tipped into the length that was about to make Shay concede into a “forget about it,” Cosima said, “Prove it.”

Shay leveled her with an unimpressed stare. “With, like, what? You want me to ask her about Dyad? What’s to stop you from assuming I’m a corporate spy again?”

Impressively, not only did Cosima look abashed, but Shay thought she could sense ashamed embarrassment in the atmosphere.

“Well,” Cosima stammered, just as Shay heard a whisper. Shay cocked her head, brow wrinkling.

“She said,” Shay said slowly, “she’s the cold turkey asshole and it looks like she was wrong about this stuff.”

Cosima stared at Shay, fear and something like awe and hope and reluctance all steamrolled across her features.

“What stuff?” Shay asked the room, while Cosima ventured, “What activity is followed by smoking a nice, little cigarette?”

Cosima’s question painted alarm and apprehension across Shay’s face, but then a different sort of confusion marred her concentration. “Jogging.” Her head tilted. “A jogging.”

“Jesus,” Cosima muttered. “What kind of ice cream did I buy?”

“Eskimo Pie,” Shay said after a moment. Her nose wrinkled. “Really?”

Cosima sank onto Shay’s couch. “Delphine? You’re here?”

Shay shrugged, as if to say, Now you believe me?

“Why can’t I hear her?” Cosima demanded.

“I don’t know, Cosima,” Shay said drily. “If you can think of a science experiment to figure out why, we could try it.”

Cosima answered with a wry smile, but fondness underlay the acknowledgement of Shay’s testy admonishment.

“Okay,” Cosima said slowly. “So you can hear Delphine. Somehow.” The two of them studied each other. Cosima breathed evenly against the whirlwind of competing emotions that rose intertwining within her. “Now what?”

Shay gazed back at her, uncertain, a little fearful, apprehensive, sorrowful in a way that made Cosima’s heart pitch. “I don’t know.”

Speechless, the silence in her ears feeling loud, neither did Cosima.

* * *

Cosima rubbed at her brow, wonderment growing with each passing second’s further consideration. “Holy shit,” she muttered to herself. “Holy shit.” She focused on Shay. “Do you know what this means?”

“I’m not crazy?” Shay suggested flippantly, masking the real fear that had burrowed its way into into her self-consciousness right into the core of Shay’s full blown anxiety. She had a lot to be anxious about these days and even just the suspicion that that anxiety was manifesting in the form of the voice of her girlfriend’s ex at random and unheralded intervals had almost been the nervous tic that shattered the fragile infrastructure bearing the weight of keeping the most worrying, mystifying, and outright fucking crazy aspects of honest life with Cosima at a manageable arm’s distance. Though Shay had found it strange that her own subconscious would have needed to call out “hello” so often and nervously.

“Yeah, that, too,” Cosima agreed, with the subdued, taken aback air that clearly conveyed that she hadn’t even realized that had been an issue. Her enthusiasm soon overrode the awkwardness. “But this means the afterlife exists! That dualism is a thing! We have souls and when we die, there’s something … more! We move … on!” 

Shay watched Cosima flatly. “Except Delphine is still here. ‘Here.’”

Cosima sobered. Shay expected Delphine to remark on her comment, but listening hard yielded nothing.

“Can you see her?” Cosima asked hesitantly.

“No,” Shay said curtly. She swept her eyes across the ceiling. “I’m not sure she’s always around. Or that she’s all 'there.’ Or whatever. Seems liked she can hear both of us if she’s answering your questions, but you can’t hear her.”

“Is she, like, loud?” Cosima looked fit to burst from curiosity. Which Shay would have found adorable under different circumstances.

Shay shook her head. “No. Sometimes her voice is really soft, like a whisper. Sometimes it’s, like, normal conversation level.”

“Can you, like … feel her? Like sense her?”

Shay frowned. “I don’t know.” It was the truth and it was annoying. At times Shay thought she could feel a presence, but then she would wonder if she only thought she could feel a presence because she suspected a presence was there and that, in fact she wasn’t feeling anything.

The uncertainty was sowing a whole new strain of paranoia and self-doubt in Shay.

“Maybe,” Cosima mused aloud, focused on nothing, talking more to herself than to Shay (or Delphine), “it takes, like, energy or something to communicate and that’s why it’s taken until now for her to appear. Maybe you have to accumulate energy to, like, pierce the veil and make contact. Or maybe there are, like, um, mechanics and it takes some figuring out. And maybe here in the corporeal dimension you need, like, a sensitivity to that type of energy in order to, um, receive the message, like getting on the right radio frequency.”

Shay listened to perhaps the first half before she tuned out, hunching over and covering her eyes. It was when she heard a thoughtful, “Huh. Interesting hypotheses” punctuate Cosima’s brainstorming that Shay said, “Cosima, can you … not?”

The silence was abrupt. After the pause, Cosima ventured, “You okay?”

“No,” Shay snapped, too sharply, too bitterly. She sighed and dropped her hands heavily into her lap. “But thank you for asking.”

“Sorry,” Cosima apologized softly. “I’m just … excited by the implications. This is, like, legitimately huge.”

“And excited that it’s Delphine?” Shay asked, point blank. The words struck her own ear drums with the cadence of unchecked weariness.

Cosima’s expression, hesitant and restrained, said it all. Shay shook her head. “I hope you understand that I’m not very excited and maybe just a little fucking pissed.”

“Shay,” Cosima said, trailing off, as a ghostly interjection insisted in the voice that sometimes visited Shay’s anxiety nightmares, “I didn’t ask for this either.”

Shay waved her hand through the air, as if she could dissipate the unsolicited sound waves. (Was it sound waves? Fifth grade science, dimly remembered now, posited that sound were molecules bouncing off one another, but this meant sound was physical, which should have meant that Cosima should have been able to hear the words as well. But she couldn’t. Maybe Shay really was going crazy. But psychically. Because there should have been no way for her to be able to give Cosima answers she didn’t know.)

“Look, I just don’t know how to deal with this, like, at all,” Shay declared. “Clones? Sure. That’s—that’s science. That’s real. I can—I can touch you. You obey laws of nature. A ghost only I can hear? Who is your ex? Someone who threatened to kill me?” Shay could hear the rising anger in her voice, could feel it pressing, growing, against the inside of her ribs. She took a few deep breaths, seeking out Cosima’s keen gaze. “I—I’m sorry, I can’t get excited about this. I … I’m trying to be honest with you.” She searched Cosima’s eyes. “I … don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

That wasn’t entirely true. Shay knew what she wanted to do—tell Delphine to kindly move on and leave her, them, alone—and she knew all too well that, now that this opportunity had presented itself, that was the last thing Cosima wanted.

Shay was maybe a bit more than a little fucking pissed.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” the voice said, almost like an apology. “I don’t know how I’m here.”

Shay sighed and kneaded a temple.

Scientists.

“Do you want me to go?” Cosima asked quietly.

No, Shay didn’t want Cosima to go; she wanted Delphine to go. But that didn’t seem possible and now that they’d confirmed as much as they could that the presence was something Delphine-esque, Shay didn’t much like the thought of the three of them awkwardly “catching up.” With her as the middle woman.

“Do you have a place you can go to?” Shay asked, tiredly.

Cosima braved a smile. “Felix’s.”

Shay shook her head wearily. “His place isn’t safe.”

“Neither is yours,” Cosima pointed out, but kindly. “No place is.”

It wasn’t the first time Shay wanted to suggest running away, and it wouldn’t be the last time that Shay had to remind herself that Dyad and its facilities and its secrets were keeping Cosima alive.

“Okay,” Shay said, as if she were surrendering. She felt defeated.

Cosima got to her feet, stepped close, hesitated, then laid her hand on Shay’s shoulder and squeezed. Shay smiled at her feebly, ignoring how bitterness wanted to pull her mouth into a frown, stood up, and saw her out with a promise to call. When she shut and locked the door, Shay leaned her forehead against the wood and said aloud, “What was the point of trying to push me at Cosima to take your place if you were going to come back and ruin it?”

“That wasn’t my intention,” came the reply.

“Which part?” Shay snapped.

“Both.”

Shay directed a sardonic grimace at the unresponsive wood grain. “I guess Cosima’s right about this being an opportunity to learn about the afterlife. Apparently you can still lie.”

* * *

**Game Night**

=The third card from the right.=

Shay, expression dubious and under Cosima’s watchful eye, reached toward the cards laid propped up upon the tile holder they’d pilfered from the Rummikub box and set up on an empty side of the Runewars board.

=My right, not yours.=

“Technically, do you have a ‘right’ anymore?” Shay asked as she reached toward the other side. Cosima, listening, raised an eyebrow.

=Your attempts to apply empirical space-time physics to this situation is cute,= Delphine deadpanned, conveying through tone alone how very uncute she found Shay’s efforts. Shay checked a snicker, aware that Delphine had made a deliberate choice of words and that Delphine was aware that she was aware. It didn’t sting or irritate the way it would have weeks ago. 

Shay had no idea what that said about her and their situation. Probably that everything had gone so far beyond social constructs of normal and commonplace behavior into screwed up and incomprehensible that they’d managed to circle back around to acceptable and normality.

“I’m willing to bet that whatever this card is, you should play the card you wanted to last round,” Shay said as she pinched the indicated card between her thumb and first two fingers.

=And that you told me not to play?= Delphine snapped.

“It wasn’t the right time to play it, but now is the time,” Shay assured her, stealthily turning the card at an angle to catch a glimpse at what was underneath. She frowned. “Oh yeah, definitely play the card from before.”

=Stop peeking!= Delphine admonished, futile as it was.

“I’m helping you and trying to teach you the game,” Shay fired back.

“Um,” Cosima cut in. “Are you going to make a move?”

=I would if Ms. I-Give-Unsolicited-Advice would let me!= exclaimed Delphine. 

Shay let out a snort and a dry “Ha ha!” that gave rise to alarm, curiosity, and amusement in Cosima’s expression. Shay didn’t notice, which she would have understood as another sign of how strange her life had gotten, and didn’t relay the exchange.

“Look, if you listen to me,” Shay said, waving Delphine’s chosen card through the air pincered between two fingers so that the back faced Cosima, “we could totally destroy Cosima, I promise you.”

“Hey!” Cosima protested. “That’s not fair!” 

“Welcome to my daily existence,” Shay declared without missing a beat, unmoved.

=I think that’s ‘our’ daily existence,= Delphine interjected.

“Okay, fine, mine and Delphine’s daily existence. Since you don’t have to suffer what we do, it’s only fair that you should have to bear some of the consequences, like getting beat twice over by my honed Runewars skills.”

“Dude, if I could hear Delphine—” Cosima insisted.

“But you can’t,” Shay pointed out.

“—I would teach her how to play.”

“Which is why I’m teaching her how to play,” Shay chirped, putting Delphine’s card back and plucking the one she’d replaced last round, “which, for the time being, means teaching her how to beat you.”

=I don’t think you’re actually teaching me how to play. You’re playing for me.=

“Shush,” Shay said. “You’ll understand what’s happening when we take out Cosima’s armies. Watch.”

=That’s all I do now,= Delphine conceded.

Shay hesitated, on the cusp of flipping the card and putting it in play. After a second, she shook her head and put the card back on the stand with the others. “Okay. Okay. Tell me how you want to play it.”

=Well,= Delphine’s voice said, heightening then fading as it sometimes did, =I did think that was my best move at the time, but you’re saying it’s not, and I want to understand why.=

Shay sighed. “This would be so much easier if I could whisper to you or something and be sure you’d hear it.”

Cosima raised an eyebrow, glancing at the empty space, though they’d all determined that, for the most part, Delphine didn’t inhabit any particular “where” most times, then got to her feet. “Was that a bottle of rose I saw you bring in earlier?”

“Yes,” Shay said, giving Cosima her attention.

“I’m going to go to the bathroom and then pour a couple glasses, okay?”

Eyes softening, Shay smiled. “Okay. Take your time.”

“Try to keep your explanation simple,” Cosima cautioned. “She’s a newbie.”

=We are so going to beat her,= Delphine stated, a hint of heat permeating through from the mystical realm.

Shay grinned at Cosima in assurance. “Yup. Will do.”

* * *

**Between You and Me**

Shay gathered her hair up in her hands, grasped the strands in a loose hold, and turned her head left and right to study the effect in the bathroom mirror.

= Is something wrong? =

Shay’s fingers spasmed, releasing her hair. She gasped and placed a hand over her racing heart. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and released it with little puff of laughter. “I am never going to get used to that.”

There was a good length of silence, then, = Probably not. =

Shay shook her head and returned to critically examining her reflection. “I wish I knew when you were ‘around’ and when you weren’t.” 

= I’m not always aware that I am around myself, = Delphine said, perhaps by way of slanted apology, or, at the least, an explanation for the abrupt assertions of her presence. = I think you have been in the bathroom for some time? But I’m not sure. That’s why I wondered if something was wrong. =

Shay smiled. “I’m just … fussing with my hair today. Wondering if I should leave it down or put it up or maybe get it cut or trimmed.” She scritched at a part in her hair. “I probably need a touch up.”

= Put it up. It accentuates the shape of your face. =

Shay stilled, then raised an eyebrow at no one. “Oh?”

= I’m not—I wasn’t—blind. Neither is Cosima. =

“Delphine Cormier,” Shay said, dabbing at her eyeshadow to even out a patch, “are you complimenting me?”

= Am I saying that you are an attractive woman? Yes. =

The compliment, even if by admission, was pleasing. Surprisingly, if Shay had to qualify it. “Thank you.” Shay fluffed at her hair and reviewed the resulting mess. Her focus turned inward. “When did you know you were gay?”

A response wasn’t immediate in wafting forth from the ether.

= Cosima. =

Shay’s lungs stuttered and stilled, until she exhaled the aborted breath and inhaled deeply. “Cosima was your first?”

= The first woman I was with? Yes. But I don’t know if I considered myself … =

“Gay?” Shay supplied to fill in the hanging blank.

= No. Well, yes, I did not consider myself gay. Perhaps bisexual. But more than that, I mean that I don’t know if I would have … =

Shay waited, head cocked quizzically to listen to no direction in particular, no longer interested in the pretense of fixing up her hair.

= I was not romantic. Before Cosima. =

Shay nodded slowly. “You fell for her hard.”

= Yes. =

Shay stared into the reflection of her eyes because there was no face of her companion to study.

= I wasn’t supposed to, = Delphine added.

Shay gripped the edges of the sink and braced herself, hanging her head to stare into the white porcelain depths of the bowl. Raising her head, she glanced around. “You mean you weren’t supposed to fall in love with her … because she’s some sort of science experiment?”

The silence of the bathroom pressed on Shay.

“Delphine?” Shay called uncertainly.

= I’m here. =

“Help me understand this,” Shay said, tone open and scoured of accusation or judgement. “Help me understand Cosima’s world.”

= I was her monitor. =

“What does that mean?” Shay asked before Delphine could progress beyond the point where it would be convenient to ask.

= The subjects—the clones—the LEDA clones—were—are kept under covert observation and surveillance. To track their growth, health, development, et cetera. All the factors that could be taken into account to answer questions about human nature, nurture, and, with the clones especially, concerns of viability. To do so, DYAD employed ‘monitors,’ people placed close to the subjects who would report on the daily and significant activities of their subjects. =

Shay’s brow crinkled. “Wait. Like—” Shay shook her head, forming and rejecting wordings as her brain struggled to comprehend. “Are you saying that these monitors are people who the—the clones consider … friends?”

= Friends, yes. In many cases, partners or lovers. =

“Oh my God,” Shay breathed. She rubbed at her forehead. “And Cosima knows about this?”

= Now, yes. She discovered my identity. =

“But before she had no idea?” Shay asked.

= No. As far as I know. =

“No wonder,” Shay breathed. No wonder Cosima was so paranoid.

= I was sent to replace her monitor when Cosima moved from Berkeley to Minneapolis and elected to break up with her girlfriend at the time. =

Shay exhaled sharply. “Are you trying to tell me that her ex before you was her monitor?”

= Yes. =

Shay swept a hand down her face. “And Cosima had no idea.”

= I doubt it. Beth, another subject, had made contact with her and presented the case they were clones in an experiment, but I don’t believe they had put together the pieces regarding the monitors yet. =

“Until she met you,” Shay said.

Again, the quiet for a time. = It is hard for me to say. She told me later, when she confronted me about being sent by DYAD, that she knew everything had been … bullshit. But I don’t know. Cosima … Cosima has a tendency for bravado. =

Shay loosed a gasp of incredulous laughter. “Yeah. She does.” She glanced into the mirror. “So you were sent to seduce her?”

= No. Recruit. We suspected she had been in contact with another subject. If that were the case and she was self-aware, it was wise to bring her into the fold. =

“And lying to her seemed like the best path to achieve that?” Shay lashed out, sarcasm unchecked.

Delphine’s silence was measured. Shay had no idea if this was part of her personality or if this unhurried calmness was a characteristic of afterlife existence. = We did not know what she knew. I could not go up to her and say, 'Now that you know you are a clone, consider joining the study.’ If she hadn’t known she was a clone, that would have outed the secret. Even if that is what happened, eventually. =

Shay shook her head. Scientists. That the secrecy of the project, Cosima’s status as ignorant or self-aware, was paramount spoke volumes.

“Eventually,” Shay echoed. “Did you get together before or after 'eventually.’”

= Before. =

“So you did seduce her,” Shay said.

= If any seduction took place, she seduced me, = Delphine asserted. = They are like that, the clones. Alluring. =

“Of course,” Shay said lowly. “They’re people.”

The silence swirled, then, = Yes. =

Shay crossed her arms. “But you … you loved her.”

= Yes. =

“I don’t understand how you could … I mean, that you could work for the people who were just … using her.”

= And keeping her safe and alive. I thought I could act on her behalf. Be the middleman. Advance measures in her interest. The monitors, you know, they don’t know about the clone project. Many of them do care about the clones. They think they are helping in some way. =

“I don’t … I don’t get it.”

= You don’t? Then why did you pursue Cosima? She is honest, as best she can be, emotionally. She told me of her ex. She told you about me, didn’t she? =

Shay’s lips thinned into a grim line. “Yeah, she did.”

= Why didn’t that caution you off? =

Shay sent her gaze drifting unseeingly over the bathroom fixtures. “I just … felt it when we met. That she would be someone important or significant to me.” She shrugged. “I know you don’t believe in that stuff, but sometimes you’ve got to trust your gut.”

= And she was vulnerable. =

Shay frowned.

= We knew that in moving and leaving everything behind, Cosima was vulnerable. We relied on the likelihood she needed a friend. =

The implications lined up.

= You are a healer, Shay, in your way. How you are with your patients, I recognize that. =

“You didn’t need to heal Cosima.”

= Her body. =

“Not her heart. You broke that.”

= I broke mine, too. For her. To keep her safe. =

Shay shook her head. “You didn’t let her go, not really. And she couldn’t let you go.” She turned back to the mirror and took up her hair brush. “And, yeah, I could sense that, too.”

= Yet here you are. =

“I guess we’re all gluttons for punishment, down to do stupid shit for love,” Shay declared as she worked the tangles out of the ends of her hair, only to pause in her furious efforts a second later. “I’m sorry that you’re stuck with me and not Cosima.”

The apology hung unanswered. After a prolonged amount of time, Shay shook her head and returned to working on her hair. She worked the front portions into a braid and pulled them out of her face, a compromise between putting it all back and leaving it down.

= Maybe this was for the best, = Delphine said. = Cosima does care for you. You and I, we are very different. You and Cosima are very different from how she and I … how we were. =

“And now the three of us are just plain weird,” Shay concluded, almost flippant, but unprepared, just at the moment, to fully process the very strange tableau of her life and its tangled, frayed, unraveling and knotting threads. She gave her appearance a final inspection. 

= You look nice. =

Shay gave her reflection an experimental smile. “Thanks.”

* * *

**Team Effort Dinner**

= Please, don't—stop—why would you climb atop that very tall stool in your heels? =

"Are you concerned I might hurt myself or that if I fall and break my neck there won't be anyone else to act as your medium?" Shay asked as she hauled herself atop the very tall stool and balanced herself on the seat, considering which pans and skillets she wanted to take down. Cosima looked on with mild concern. Not about Shay on the stool, but, as always when she was privy to only half of a conversation that sounded potentially like an argument, that Delphine and Shay weren't getting along and she couldn't play mediator.

Not that Cosima had played mediator when Delphine was alive, as Shay had remarked to Delphine once in private. They'd shared a snicker over the truth. Well, Shay snickered; she wasn't sure how Delphine had felt about that exactly.

= Why are your pots and pans hung so high? They are far too high for someone of your height. = Delphine asked instead of answering Shay's question.

"Look, I didn't build out the kitchen, it came like this," Shay said, carefully lifting what they needed off their hooks and handing them down to Cosima, who took them and set them on top of the empty burners. "Obviously it was built for someone of above-average height."

= Or someone not short. =

"I am average height. Cosima and I are the same height. You were, like, completely above average height for a woman. And you wore heels all the time. So I don't think you get to determine who's short." Shay glanced down at Cosima, whom she happened to be towering over at the moment. "Did Delphine ever call you short?"

"No," Cosima said slowly. "I think it was kinda weird that I wasn't taller than she was, though. I think all the guys she dated had been tall."

= I felt easier with men who were taller, = Delphine clarified in agreement.

"Man, you must have had a hard time finding guys to date," Shay remarked lowly.

= Perhaps a reason why I didn't date very much, = Delphine corroborated.

Shay hummed, then flashed a mischievous smile at Cosima. "Did you and Delphine talk about your exes much?"

"Uh, no, not really," Cosima said awkwardly.

"You never asked her?" Shay said, surprised, standing comfortably upon the high ground of her very tall stool.

Cosima shrugged. "It didn't really seem . . . important? I guess it never came up."

Delphine didn't offer commentary.

Shay hummed again, expression introspective.

"What's that look?" Cosima asked.

Shay grinned at her. "I'll ask her later." She bent to dismount off the stool while an expression curiously torn between intrigue and dismay contorted Cosima's face.

= Be careful, = Delphine urged.

"This isn't the first time I've done this," Shay remarked drily as her shoes smacked the floor with a sharp clack. "This may be hard to believe, but we people you consider vertically challenged do find a way."

= As humans have a tendency to do to overcome their liabilities, = Delphine agreed lightly. = Science is very good for that. =

Shay tugged her shirt back in place and gave Cosima a flat look. "Our height is a liability."

Cosima opened her mouth to say something, reconsidered, and stopped. Shay cocked her head. "What?"

Not meeting Shay's eyes, Cosima muttered, "She never mentioned height with me. I guess I gave her no reason to complain."

Shay's eyes glittered, catching the drift in Cosima's tone. "Oh, I'm sure you didn't." She grinned wickedly, suggestive. "I know you didn't."

= Can we not? = Delphine interjected.

"Not what?" Shay asked aloud innocently. Cosima looked momentarily confused until she realized the question wasn't directed at her.

= Maybe you should start cooking dinner, = Delphine suggested. = Don't let Cosima get distracted. She tends to get caught up in conversation or remembers she wanted to show you something and then everything gets burned. =

"Roger," Shay said, snatching up the bottle of olive oil and holding it out to Cosima.

"Roger what?" Cosima asked, taking it.

"Delphine says you burn the food."

"That was _once_!" Cosima squawked.

= Of the two times she cooked, so she burned the food fifty percent of the time, = Delphine added. Listening, Shay grinned.

"What?" Cosima demanded.

"Delphine is getting statistical. The stats aren't in your favor." Shay rewound that thought. "Well, they're not exactly against you, either."

"Yeah, well, she's not getting any of this risotto," Cosima declared.

= True, = Delphine said, matter-of-factly, but the truth itself struck Shay as sad.

"Maybe we should make her a plate," Shay said. "You know, according to Buddhist practices—"

= No. Whatever you are about to say, no— =

"—we could set a place for her and offer her a portion—"

= —it's not true. I'm telling you, for a fact, that it is not true. =

"—and she could enjoy your risotto in the afterlife."

= That's not how it works! =

Shay grinned. "She loves the idea."

Cosima eyed her doubtfully. "That doesn't sound like Delphine."

= Thank you, Cosima! =

Shay laughed. 

* * *

**The Meta Fanfic on Fanfic**

“What are you so engrossed in over here?” Cosima asked, settling onto the couch and draping herself across Shay’s back to settle her chin on Shay’s shoulder. Thus she felt Shay’s muscles momentarily stiffen, before a little laugh rocked through them both.

She held her phone up so that Cosima could glimpse the screen. “Fanfic.”

Cosima peered closer. “Seriously? What series?”

Shay laughed. “ _Lost Girl_.”

“You watched _Lost Girl_?”

“It’s still airing, you know,” Shay said, noting Cosima’s use of past tense.

“You watch _Lost Girl_?” Cosima amended.

“So judging,” Shay said, lowering her phone deliberately and protectively to shield it from Cosima’s eyes.

“I’m not judging,” Cosima said, “I’ve just lost track. I got kinda crazy busy and couldn’t keep up.”

“… And it is trashy fun,” Shay finished.

Cosima buried a smile in Shay’s shoulder and wrapped her arms around her middle. “Yeah, it kinda is.”

“I’m not complaining, though,” Shay clarified. “There aren’t many shows where a female protagonist makes out with that many women.”

“I know, right?” Cosima mumbled into Shay’s shoulder. Shay returned to her phone as Cosima drifted into a state of half-drowsiness. “Smut?”

Shay chuckled. “If I were in the mood for smut …”

Cosima smiled against Shay again. “Something WAFF-y or something angsty?”

Shay laid her hand atop Cosima’s forearm and ran her fingers lightly across her skin. “Were you really too busy to keep up with the show or were you too caught up in reading fanfic?”

“Sometimes fanfic gives you what canon can’t,” Cosima said, somewhat defensively.

= What is fanfic? =

“Oh, hey, Delphine,” Shay said aloud, for Cosima’s benefit. “Fanfic are stories written by fans about existing shows and works.”

Cosima nuzzled into Shay’s shoulder. “I always thought that definition was kinda narrow. There are published works we don’t call fanfic that totally are.”

“I didn’t say there weren’t,” Shay said.

“I’m just saying,” Cosima said.

= I see. What is _Lost Girl_? =

“ _Lost Girl_ is a sci-fi show about a bisexual succubus.”

= Succubus? =

“A succubus is a, um, mythical—”

“Supernatural?” Cosima suggested.

“—creature that feeds on sexual energy. A succubus is female. An incubus is male.”

= Oh. I’m not really going to understand what this show is about even if I ask you to tell me, am I? =

“Really it’s about a woman who makes out with a lot of men and women,” Shay explained. “That’s really the heart of it.”

“She solves crime and fights evil, too,” Cosima chimed in.

“Between the making out and sex,” Shay agreed.

“While the fans argue about who she should end up with romantically,” Cosima concluded.

= That happens? =

“Oh yeah, shipping happens,” Shay said. She turned her head to address Cosima. “Were you aware that Delphine was totally not a nerd?”

= What’s wrong about not being a nerd? =

Cosima shrugged. “She was smart as hell. It was super sexy.”

= Thank you. =

Shay exhaled a giggle.

“I kinda suspected, though. And since she had just come out—or rather figured it out—I planned to make her watch everything once we had free time,” Cosima confessed.

= Everything? =

“Delphine wants to know what you mean by everything,” Shay relayed.

“You know what I mean by everything,” Cosima said, addressing Shay.

“Probably,” Shay agreed.

“We should watch everything and make Delphine watch with us.”

“Do you think the three of us watching on a tiny laptop screen would be too crowded?” Shay asked.

“Delphine doesn’t have a body,” Cosima pointed out.

“Yeah, but … we still haven’t figured out how that works and all.”

= It’ll probably be fine. Honestly, I’m probably more receptive to watching endless hours of television in this state than I was alive. =

Shay smothered a laugh but Cosima felt it.

“What?” Cosima asked. 

“I think Delphine is less than enthusiastic at realizing you were going to subject her to a ton of TV.”

“It would have been awesome,” Cosima protested.

= Like Scott teaching Rachel to play Agricola, I’m sure. =

“What’s that mean?” Shay said to Delphine.

= Nothing. =

“What?” Cosima asked.

= Never mind. =

“Nothing, I guess,” Shay said, letting the comment slide, sensing despite her curiosity that there was perhaps more there than she wanted to unpack just then. At least, perhaps not with Cosima present.

Cosima sighed and deflated into Shay, molding against her. They were all quiet again for a time, Shay flicking her phone screen to scroll, when Cosima asked, “Doccubus or Valkubus?”

“Maybe I’m Team Dyson,” Shay retorted.

Cosima’s gaze flattened. “Really?”

Shay laughed. “Are you trying to say a lesbian can’t be Team Hetero?”

“No, but—Dyson? Really?”

“He got better?” Shay offered feebly. “Fine. Maybe I’m all about the CopDoc.”

“CopDoc? Is that Tamsin and Lauren? Is there even canon to support that?”

“Does there have to be?” Shay asked.

“I guess anything goes in fandom,” Cosima hedged.

= You two are speaking a foreign language. =

“It’s geek speak, Delphine,” Shay consoled her.

“We’ll just have to watch _Lost Girl_ so Delphine can understand,” Cosima said.

“You know,” Shay said slowly, “you could say Delphine is kind of like Lauren.”

“Because they’re both doctors?” Cosima asked.

“There’s that. And the, uh, working for the enemy kinda thing.”

Cosima fell quiet and then she muttered something that got lost in Shay’s shirt.

“What was that?” Shay asked.

“Nothing,” Cosima said quickly. She added, slowly, “You know, you sorta look like Kenzi.”

Shay laughed. “What? How?”

“Obviously not in the way you dress or wear your hair, but, I don’t know, something about your face?”

= Who is this Kenzi? =

“Kenzi,” Shay intoned, “is the protagonist’s best friend. She’s a very young, very street smart, very sassy, very Goth couture, and very _straight_ smart-mouthed thief.” She eyed Cosima. “In other words, she’s completely unlike me—and completely fictional—and you’re lucky that’s true.”

“I don’t know, the smart-mouthed thing is kinda spot on,” Cosima said.

Shay nudged Cosima with an elbow. “Careful.”

Cosima chuckled and squeezed tightly onto Shay briefly. “No, but seriously, I think she could be your sister.”

= I almost wish I understood what you were two are going on about. =

“Be careful what you wish for,” Shay said. “There are five seasons of _Lost Girl_.”

“I got through three,” Cosima confessed. “Maybe three and a half.”

= If it’s not very good, then why watch it? =

“Delphine,” Shay said heavily, “you have no idea how desperate lesbians are.”

= Well … if Cosima serves as any indication … =

Raucous laughter rocked through Shay, whipping her back into an arch and startling Cosima, then doubling her over as her stomach clenched and spasmed.

“What?” Cosima demanded, alarmed, hold loose around Shay but reluctant to let go.

Shay settled down, teary-eyed, sighing to release the last of the giggles. She patted Cosima’s hand and said, without elaborating, “Exactly.”

Cosima entrapped Shay in a constrictor’s hold. “What am I missing?”

Shay smiled to herself. “That life is stranger than fiction and that no made up lesbian drama can possibly live up to ours.”

= Sadly, true. =


	48. Careful Considerations (Shaysima)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> August 17, 2015

"The problem with getting married," announced Cosima into the comfortable silence without preface, qualification, or further elaboration. Shay, who had been browsing the selection of titles on her Kindle for something new to read, lowered the device and found Cosima looking at her from the other end of the couch. Her laptop sat open on her lap, custom skin turned facing Shay, so that Shay had no idea what might have prompted that line of thought from Cosima, if anything had at all. 

Unsure where this could possibly be going, Shay rested her forearms on Cosima's shins, met Cosima's eyes, and said, "Okay? Tell me."

"We'd have to have two weddings," Cosima declared.

Shay let that filter through a series of comprehension attempts. Considering she and Cosima had never before discussed any further arrangements between them beyond living together years ago and that that discussion had amounted to not much more than acknowledging the reality aloud long after Cosima's possessions had made homes in Shay's closets and drawers and tubs, this was news to Shay.

"Okay," Shay said slowly. "Why?"

Cosima's hands orchestrated sweeps and chops through the air. "Because I can't think of how we could explain all these women who look like me to your family or my extended family and I can't not invite Sarah and everyone else."

"Right," Shay said, imagining the scenario and the certain confusion that would crop up among the wedding guests. A ceremony and reception like that would be a first-time introduction of the Davydov, Niehaus, and LEDA clans. Introductions that would be awkward to make. "That is a problem."

Cosima propped her elbow on the arm of the couch and dumped her head into her palm. "And it's not like we could make everyone sign a nondisclosure agreement or keep people from posting photographs on Facebook and Instagram."

Shay nodded. "Right."

"I mean, like, could you imagine all the tagging? Someone will mix up Alison for Sarah and we’d never hear the end of it."

Shay chuckled, near silently. "Yeah?"

Cosima frowned, openly vexed, not really talking to Shay anymore, but venting her thoughts aloud. "We could try to do a small wedding and restrict it to, like, immediate family, but I think my parents would be a little sad if I didn't invite my aunts and uncles. And Alison or someone would argue that they count as immediate family, too. I mean, they're not really wrong and in, like, a strictly genetic sense, they’re even more immediate, but that just means that isn't a solution. Even inviting just one or two of them would be noticeable—if I even could. Like if I invite Sarah, I need to invite Helena. Or like inviting Alison or Krystal means that it would definitely get out and then someone would make a comment about not getting invited and soon everyone would be on my case."

Shay grinned. Cosima’s concerns were perfectly logical and understandable. Not to mention that not inviting at least Sarah or Alison and their families would feel legitimately strange to Shay now after years of knowing and seeing them and relaying messages and coordinating, because Cosima was the last person to be bothered to keep a schedule and everyone knew it. These days Shay's brain hardly noted the resemblance between them and Cosima because each was so different in personality, appearance, and speech.

Except for that one time Shay and Alison helped Sarah become Cosima.

They didn't talk about that. 

(Whenever Tony dropped in and a few drinks made their way into everyone, he liked to egg on Sarah to imitate the others. On the occasions Shay caught a performance, she tended to feel a frisson of alarm and disassociation hearing the voices of the others come out of Sarah's mouth and their mannerisms dressed in Sarah's clothes. Sometimes Shay had the bizarre impression that Sarah was more any of the others than the others were themselves.)

Cosima was right, though, that even in small numbers seeing enough similar faces gathered altogether at once would cause a stir. There might not be questions that very day, but Shay had no doubt she'd be fielding inquiries in the weeks after.

And even Cosima never seemed quite able to decide how she wanted to explain her sisters and brother.

Cosima sighed, eyeing Shay from her sideways vantage point of resignation. "So I think the only way is to have two weddings."

"Okay," Shay said with gentle consideration, absently rubbing Cosima's shin, "I'm not sure we could afford that, and I'm not sure two weddings is how to go about addressing the clone . . . attendance problem . . . but I don't know why you're worried about this."

Cosima pinned her with a matter-of-fact look. "Because I want to ask you to marry me." A smile, small and satisfied, punctuated her statement, until Cosima added, "But not if it's too much trouble."

"When haven't you been too much trouble?" Shay quipped unthinkingly, hand running up and down Cosima's shin in slow, methodical strokes.

"Right? I keep waiting for you to lose patience with me."

Shay met Cosima's eyes, twinkling at her now. "We've still yet to see."

Cosima grinned. "Be patient with me a little longer?"  


Shay kept her gaze steady on Cosima’s.

“Marry me?” Cosima asked, eyes bright, mouth curved with hope.  


It was like this with Cosima, wasn’t it, all the events normalcy considered surprising and remarkable rendered mundane and pedestrian, and all the phenomena touted as mere fictions led crashing into one’s reality without warning?

And Cosima, at the center, embracing it all.

Her reserves of patience—and her threshold of wonderment—had yet to be exhausted.

Shay smiled.

“Yes.”  



	49. Orphan Prejudice (as in Pride and Prejudice)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not an actual fusion of _Orphan Black_ and _Pride and Prejudice_ , but I'd just finished watching the _Lizzie Bennet Diaries_ and why couldn't there be a clone named Jane Bennet whose family was Austen themed? XD
> 
> December 2015

“Can I ask you a question?” Cosima asked as she unsuccessfully tried to prevent her slithering, sliding, slipping left sleeve from getting wet by plucking at it with dripping fingers. Lizzy—Cosima was secretly glad Elizabeth Bennet preferred Lizzy rather than Beth—glanced over from where she stood beside Cosima before the other half of the sink, forearms speckled with soap suds from the sponge she passed over dish surfaces. The rule, Lizzy had explained, was that since they hadn’t cooked dinner, they cleaned. Cosima had been surprised guests weren’t exempt from cleanup duty, but she realized it was a little sister’s attempt to give her big sister a reprieve.

Wariness edged Lizzy’s study in a way that, unnervingly, didn’t lurk in her sister’s gaze. “I guess I’ve asked you a lot of questions, so go ahead.”

Cosima shoved her sleeve up with resignation and picked up a plate from the pile growing on her side. “What’s the deal with your names?”

Lizzy’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“You know, Jane, Elizabeth, Mary…”

“You mean how we all have the names of characters in a not-at-all famous and well-known Jane Austen story and just happen to have the last name Bennet?” Lizzy rephrased drily. “Yeah, I haven’t heard that one before. That’s what you want to know?”

Cosima mulled and then blurted, “It’s weird.”

Lizzy grinned, a toothy expression that wouldn’t have looked out of place on her older sister’s face—it was definitely a grin Cosima was fairly certain she’d seen on Sarah’s face once or twice. “What you mean is that it’s weird that we have those names and Jane is exactly like Jane.”

Cosima nodded slowly, shoulders lifting slightly in a shrug. “And you’re…”

“Snarky as shit?” Lizzy supplied. Her grin turned feral. “Yeah. Maybe twice as unforgiving, though.”

Cosima smiled, brightly and amused at first, then fading into uncertain as the sharp light in Lizzy’s eyes didn’t diminish. She looked away. “But it’s not a coincidence, right?”

“Nope,” Lizzy confirmed. “I think it might have started as a joke? But now the joke’s on my parents because it basically became a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“So like your mom convinced your dad to name you after the characters?” Cosima wondered.

Lizzy chuckled, head shaking from side to side. “Other way around. _Pride and Prejudice_ is one of my dad’s favorite books.”

Cosima nodded, tucking away a spike of surprise, but not without being detected. Lizzy smirked.

“I think it reminds him of his mother—my grandmother. It was one of her favorites. Anyway, when Jane and I were little, my dad used to read _Pride and Prejudice_ to us as a bedtime story. We loved it because it had our names in it and it was like he was telling us a story about us. It didn’t hurt that Jane and Elizabeth are pretty awesome in it.” Lizzy shrugged. “It’s quite possible, though, that the story shaped our personalities and who we thought we should be. Although,” Lizzy wondered aloud, eyebrows dipping, “I’ve never figured out how that explains Catherine. He’d stopped reading _Pride and Prejudice_ to us by that point.” Lizzy breathed out in a little laugh. “It probably explains why Catherine hates being called Kitty, though.”

Cosima absorbed Lizzy’s summary. This was a piece of nature versus nurture no one probably ever considered happening. It was fascinating in itself. Cosima contemplated the dishes. “But there are differences.”

Lizzy laughed. “Of course! I got the easier role model, honestly, because Elizabeth wasn’t perfect and made lots of mistakes. Do you think a person like Jane Bennet could really exist? Do you know what her fatal flaw was? Being too nice! She’s literally too nice for her own good. I mean Jane, my sister, gets pretty close to that but you can actually tick her off if you push her enough.”

“Not only that, but,” Cosima said as casually she could manage, “Jane’s gay.”

She felt the shift immediately, in the way Lizzy stood a little straighter, shoulders squaring, the snap in Lizzy’s voice as she demanded, “Yeah, so?”

Cosima nodded. “Cici’s not just her roommate, right? They’re together.”

Lizzy studied her narrow-eyed, then abruptly reached over and shut off the faucet. The silence in the room rushed into Cosima’s ears. Lizzy’s eyes traveled restlessly over Cosima’s face. Cosima saw in the furrows of her brow that the resemblance to her sister was bothering her. “What are you getting at?”

Cosima shook her head. “Nothing. I’m gay.”

Lizzy turned that thought over in her mind. “Aren’t you all?”

“No,” Cosima said. “Most of us seem to sit on the predominantly heterosexual side. I guess Jane and I are raising the percentage in the pool for the not-straight variable.”

“Huh,” Lizzy uttered. She nodded. “You should talk to Jane about that.”

Cosima cocked her head. “Did she struggle with it?”

Lizzy held her gaze. “Did you?”

Cosima shook her head. “No. Not really.”

“Huh,” Lizzy breathed again. “Maybe it was an elder sister thing.”

Cosima grinned. “I’ll have to ask her.”

Lizzy retreated into her thoughts. When she came back, it was to the remainder of the dirty dishes. “Look, this whole clone deal—it’s not going to change her life, is it? You said it shouldn’t be dangerous, that a bunch of you had taken care of a lot of the behind-the-scenes stuff already, but, like, is this going to interfere with her life in some way?”

Cosima turned the faucet back on, focusing on the stream of water. “Only if she wants it to? It would be smart of her to keep up with her medical records, maybe coordinate with us, but she should know the importance of that, being in med school. But if she doesn’t want us in her life, there’s no reason for us to be.” Cosima frowned. “We—me and my sister clones and our, uh, friends and allies—we, uh, argued—maybe the better word is debated. We debated touching base with everyone we could find. The problem was that we can’t ask anyone if they want to know before we contact them because it’s just weird to say you need to tell someone something but that you want an okay that they want to know whatever it is before they know what’s it about, y'know? So Jane’s like…” Cosima peeked out of the corner of her eye and found Lizzy watching her closely. “Jane’s like a preliminary test case. Her profile showed her to be very stable and established, so we figured if we could try approaching anyone first…”

Lizzy nodded slowly. “Her profile.”

Cosima mirrored her gesture. “It’s something I’ll talk about with Jane. If she wants to discuss what we have to tell her with you, it’s her right, but … there’s a lot for her to know … if she wants to know.”

Lizzy shifted, drawing Cosima’s full attention. Her gaze meeting Cosima’s directly, she said, “This is really fucked up.”

Cosima attempted a smile that faded midway. “Parts of it are, yeah. But … it’s why you have Jane as your older sister.”

Lizzy held her gaze for several tense breaths. Turning away sharply, she said, tightly, “Yeah, I realize that.”

* * *

Cosima pressed her face close to the spines of the neatly aligned books, just to verify that she was looking at a shelf devoted solely to different editions of _Pride and Prejudice_.

“Cosima?” a voice, technically possibly her own voice but pitched at a register higher and sweeter, startled her. “Tea?”

Cosima turned around to a warm, somewhat amused, partly uncertain smile, and accepted the steaming mug with a sheepishness of someone caught inspecting her hostess’ home. Jane, her doppelganger, leaned a bit to the left to look over Cosima’s shoulder. Her mouth pulled at the corners into a pleased close-lipped smile.

“People gift me with _Pride and Prejudice_ all the time. Lizzy says it’s done as a joke, but her collection is actually bigger and more beautiful than mine.” Jane’s smile widened. “I think if she had the means, she’d buy Dad a first edition—and then make sure he wills it to her.”

Cosima cleared her throat. “She told me that your dad read it to you when you were children.”

Jane nodded. “It was our bedtime reading. It’s strange to think that we liked it, but it was probably because it had our names in the story.”

“That’s what she said.”

Fondness gripped Jane’s smile. “We wanted to be like Jane and Elizabeth. And as close to each other as they are.” Her face pinched. “Lizzy and I aren’t biologically related, are we?”

Cosima shook her head. “Probably not, no, unless there are whole pieces of the project we’re still not aware of—which is actually totally possible, everything considered.”

Jane nodded and gazed down into her own steaming mug. 

Cosima frowned. “That doesn’t matter, though, does it?”

Jane’s head snapped up. “No.” She tucked her hair behind an ear. “I love Lizzy. And all my sisters. They’re family and always will be. It just—” Jane shook her head.

The furrow between Cosima’s eyes deepened, but she let the aborted sentence hang unfinished. She turned back to the shelf and pointed to a framed picture of Jane embracing another woman from behind, both grinning at the camera. “Is this Cici?”

“Oh, yes. That’s Cee.”

“Cee? Not Cici?” Cosima wondered aloud.

Jane reached up with her free hand and with her index finger traced “C.C.” on the back of her other hand—backwards to Cosima watching, but Cosima got the idea. “Cici. Her initials. Everyone calls her Cici or Cee. I didn’t know it wasn’t her given name for the longest time.”

“What is her given name?”

“Charlotte,” Jane said slowly.

Cosima stared at her. “No way.”

Jane broke into a grin. “No. Cindy. Cindy Chau.”

Cosima breathed out a sigh of disbelief, then echoed Jane’s amusement. “I was gonna say, there’s no way your life can be that coincidental.”

Jane shrugged. “Life is stranger than fiction sometimes.” She motioned between them. “Case in point.” Jane regarded her from an angle. “But you didn’t know that? Cindy’s name?”

Cosima turned away uncomfortably and aimlessly touched the spines of books to expel nerves. “You’re right that we have a lot of information about you and your life thanks to DYAD’s records.” Cosima shook her head, whipping circles in the air with her free hand. “We didn’t—we haven’t pried. You understand that this was all an experiment, right?”

Jane nodded.

“As a doctor—or soon-to-be doctor—you get that in setting this up they needed a way to keep an eye on it?”

Jane nodded again, more somberly.

Cosima looked at the picture. “DYAD had this system in place, using agents they called monitors. They were people who—” Cosima glanced into Jane’s face. “—reported on us to DYAD through handlers.”

Jane’s jaw stiffened, tension coiled, which felt faintly like looking into a mirror.

“Monitors were people in positions close to us. It was a pretty common practice, as we got older, for them to use … even plant … partners. Lovers.”

Jane’s jaw flexed but very little else moved. “Are you saying that … Cee spied on me?”

“I don’t know,” Cosima admitted quietly. “As a last act of …” Cosima’s head dipped and swung as she searched for the appropriate word. “… spite when things started winding down, someone corrupted and destroyed many of the records DYAD had on the monitors. A lot of their … logs … were lost, too.”

Jane’s breathing had become deep and slow. “Is this why you suggested that you and I meet alone? Why you approved my sister’s presence but not Cee’s?”

“I … I can’t say one way or another, if Cindy—” Cosima said.

Jane spun away, shaking her head. “How?” Jane wondered aloud. “The way Cee and I met was completely coincidental. How could she have—? We were in a long-distance relationship for— She didn’t even live here until— No. There’s no way that—”

She breathed out heavily. Cosima measured the droop of her shoulders. Jane’s voice was soft in asking, “Why did you tell me that? If you weren’t sure, why did you tell me that?” She twisted to look at Cosima over her shoulder. “Why did you come here?”

Cosima took a breath, a deep one, as if preparing to unleash a speech, but no sounds emitted from her throat.

Jane turned away and set her mug down on the coffee table. “You know, Jane Bennet—Austen’s Jane—was this perfect woman. She was kind and smart and responsible. Everyone loved her. Her parents loved her. Her sisters loved her. Growing up I thought: I have to be perfect like that Jane. I have to be as kind and as smart and as responsible.” Jane wrapped her arms around herself. “I tried really hard. But at some point I started to feel … different. Different from my friends. Different from Lizzy and my sisters. I thought it was because I wasn’t attracted to any of the boys and men whom everyone said would be perfect for me.” Jane breathed out hard, a sound approximating a pained sort of laugh. “I thought maybe I was like Jane, that maybe it would just take that … perfect man. The man perfect for me. Some Charles Bingley.” She shook her head. “But that wasn’t it. I was gay. When I realized that—when I accepted it, and then accepted that it wasn’t a bad thing—I thought that explained why I felt different.” She sighed. “But maybe it was this. Maybe I knew I … didn’t belong somehow.”

Cosima sucked in her lips, wetting them. “We’re all different, Jane. From each other, I mean. We might all have the same face, but … some of us are like night and day. And each of us has a take on what our existence means. Personally, I don’t think any of us inherently didn’t belong to … to our families or our identities because of genetic makeup. This was possibly one of the grandest nature versus nurture experiments ever conducted—and there’s a lot of nurture in each of us.” She exhaled sharply. “There are some similarities. Like one of my ex-girlfriends was Asian.”

Jane whipped half-way around, shock in her wide eyes. Cosima spread her free hand in a shrug.

“Did it … did you have a hard time figuring it out?”

Cosima shook her head, a touch apologetically. “No, not really. My parents were kinda hippies. Go with the groove, feel the love, use drugs responsibly, that type of thing.”

Jane’s lips twitched, as if trying to smile but thwarted by disbelief. “Are the others … ?”

Cosima shook her head. “It’s a mixed bag. Husbands, boyfriends, hookups—” She gestured at Jane. “—your girlfriend.”

Sadness seeped into Jane’s eyes. “Cee was the best thing to happen to me. I won’t believe she spied on me unless … unless I hear it from her.”

Cosima nodded. “You could ask her. Doesn’t mean she’ll tell you the truth.” Cosima frowned in thought. “That was a mixed bag of responses, too.”

“You mean you and the others asked your partners if they were your monitors?” Jane asked, incredulous.

Cosima shrugged. “Some of us. It’s … I’m sorry. I know it’s hard to live like this, looking at everyone like they’re suspect.” She shook her head. “I didn’t come here to make you paranoid. I came here because there are things you should know, like a health issue that you need to keep an eye out for, and, yeah, possibly people who might be following you or who might want to … study you. Once we started to crack this thing open, all these groups crawled out of the woodwork, it was crazy.”

Jane frowned. “But you can’t protect me.”

Cosima sighed. “No.”

“Were we protected under, what did you call them, DYAD?”

Cosima waved her head as she sought a fair answer. “Maybe? There was a trade-off, of course, in which they studied us secretly.”

“But we didn’t know,” Jane said softly.

“Ignorance is bliss?” Cosima asked.

Jane’s eyebrows rose and fell.

“It seems like DYAD was also in the habit of eliminating subjects that became troublesome.”

Horror suffused Jane’s face.

“Yeah,” Cosima supplied, flatly. “But I guess you also mean that ignorance was bliss before I showed up?” Jane, not fully recovered from the thought that some unknown force might have ended her existence without warning, nodded warily. Cosima lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “We argued about it.”

“Which side were you on?”

“Disclosure,” Cosima admitted. 

Jane nodded slowly, looking unsurprised. “How many have you told?”

“Excluding those of us who found out by getting caught up in throwing back the curtain? One. You.”

Jane’s lips parted. “Why me first?”

“Geography, mostly,” Cosima said slowly. “But you also looked nice on paper. Felix, the brother of one our sisters, said that someone named Jane Bennet would probably put up the least protest.”

Jane smiled in defeat. “He knows _Pride and Prejudice_?”

Cosima grinned. “Better than his sister.”

Jane shook her head. “You said ‘our sisters.’”

“Yeah,” Cosima said hastily, “we sorta call each other that.”

Jane nodded absently. “I thought my hands were already full with four sisters.”

“Yeah, you’re going to have to share how you managed that.”

Jane huffed in a laugh.

“I’m sorry I’m not doing a very good job explaining all of this,” Cosima said, softly. “I’m better with the science. Sarah would say I’m blinded by it sometimes.”

Jane’s gaze narrowed thoughtfully. “Then why don’t you tell me about the science of it?”

“Really?” Cosima said.

“Really,” Jane said, extricating a hand to indicate the couch. “I haven’t passed my boards yet, but I might be able to understand some of it.”

“Some of it?” Cosima echoed, shaking her head. “I should think a little more than that.”

Jane smiled, close-lipped, and lowered herself onto the couch, perching on the edge. “Why don’t we see?”

* * *

“What amazes me,” Jane said, tipped, because she wasn’t slouching by any means, but angled bent from the hips so that she pressed sideways against the back of the sofa as if the weight of her thoughts had bourn her down like a felled tree, “is that this—we were developed in the eighties. How? How did they develop embryos that were viable?”

Cosima, totally leaning into the couch with the manner of sinking into it, one elbow propped atop the back, chin cupped in hand, nodded in understanding. “Synthetic sequences, if you can believe it.”

Jane’s eyebrows pinched toward one another. “You mean in our DNA?”

“Yeah, they—”

From the hallway came a rattling and then the fall of hard soles on the hardwood. Jane and Cosima both turned toward the noise.

“That must be Lizzy,” Jane said, pushing herself up. She padded into the hallway and greeted her sister, changing tack midway to offer help. Lizzy brushed her off, the two of them moving, by Cosima’s tracking, in the direction of the kitchen. 

“Oh, you got my favorite!” Jane exclaimed, voice carrying clearly, even over rustling and shuffling.

“Of course I got your favorite,” Lizzy said, her flat tone nonetheless carrying exasperation and fondness mingled.

“But I wouldn’t have minded if you’d gotten what you wanted,” Jane said.

“Maybe they didn’t have what I wanted,” Lizzy postulated.

“They almost always have the tiramisu because it’s popular,” Jane explained patiently. “Can you grab some plates?”

Over the clatter, Jane asked, “Should I make coffee?”

“I don’t know,” Lizzy said, and Cosima thought there was a begrudging note in her answer. “You think your guest wants coffee?”

“Could you ask her, please?”

Lizzy poked her head around the corner. “Hey, um, Cosima. Do you want any coffee?”

Cosima smiled feebly and waved a hand. “Ah, no, thanks. I’m more of a tea person.”

Lizzy lifted an eyebrow. “Do you want tea?”

“I don’t even know what’s happening right now,” Cosima admitted.

Lizzy smirked. “Dessert.”

Cosima managed, she thought, to deter her facial muscles from contracting in deep confusion. “You were getting dessert this whole time?”

Lizzy shrugged grandly. “You can thank my sister. Tea?”

Cosima glanced at her mug of probably very much cooled to room temperature tea on the coffee table. “Only if you guys are having some?”

Lizzy nodded curtly and ducked back out of sight. Cosima heard her inquire simply, “Tea?”

“Oh, can you put the kettle on while I prepare the pot? The pot would probably be easier, right? Do you want some?”

“Sure,” Lizzy chirped, presumably to one or all inquiries, because there came the soft thumps of the cupboards, the faucet running, the clunk of what Cosima presumed was the kettle onto the stove top.

“Oh my God, this isn’t a restaurant,” Lizzy chided at some point, “you don’t have to make it look perfect.”

“I"m not going to serve a slice like that. It doesn’t look nice. See, doesn’t this one look nice?” Jane countered, just as the kettle let out a warbling whistle. The cry was cut off promptly before it began to shrill and then a few moments later the sisters emerged into the living room bearing a serving tray each. Cosima had a disorienting, almost terrifying second where she felt that if she looked at Jane, she would see Alison, an overpowering surge of conviction that the clones weren’t really unique or different, that they were, in fact, quite interchangeable, one picture of domestic homeliness indistinguishable from another. But then Lizzy grumbled at Jane fussing about the arrangement as they unloaded cups and plates onto the coffee table and it wouldn’t do to leave the used mugs where Lizzy moved them out of the way, so Jane had to convey them to the sink that exact second, and Lizzy looked at Cosima and rolled her eyes with the familiarity of having reacted in exactly that way many times before, and everything eased.

Cosima smiled, relieved because the sensation had been a passing one rather than in testament to the sisters’ sibling drama, but whatever Lizzy saw in her face might have softened something in the sister’s regard.

“Eat, eat,” Jane prompted earnestly with little shooing motions when she returned and noticed no one had moved. A plate was thrust into Cosima’s hands, a fork balanced on a free edge, a napkin tucked underneath the dish. Murmuring dazed thanks, Cosima took a moment to just stare at it.

“Wow,” Cosima breathed.

“Right?” Lizzy said. “Jane totally seems like the type to like light, fluffy sponge cake, frosted with airy double-whipped cream, stuffed with more fruit than filling, but _nope_.”

“This has fruit!” Jane pointed out defensively.

“You mean this thin, nearly nonexistent layer of raspberries lost between layers of chocolate mousse and beneath like an inch of ganache?” fired back Lizzy, holding up her plate and tracing along the layer boasting hints of red with her fork. “Sure, sis.”

Cosima had to nod in agreement with Lizzy, even as Jane reminded her younger sister, “You could have gotten the tiramisu.” 

The—thankfully thin—slice upon her plate was a mass of gradients of darkness, all chocolate, that her fork had to cleave through with effort as she stabbed from the top down, layers folding and collapsing into each other as softer components, mostly the mousse, yielded far more willingly than cake or ganache. Cosima eyed the mass of sugar and decadence she’d gathered upon her fork.

It tasted as rich as it looked.

“Whoa,” Cosima said around her first bite. Jane poured a cup of tea and held it out to her. Cosima managed a thank you before sipping, the liquid replenishing the moisture in her mouth and balancing the flavors in her mouth, offsetting the sweetness to levels less overwhelming.

Eating this would be a sugar rush to an abrupt crash.

The other two displayed no intimidation by the density of the cake, both watching her as they chewed on their own bites, Jane gauging her reaction with both the eagerness of a hostess and the curiosity Cosima was familiar with from all her first encounters with her various sisters, the game of sussing out similarities and ifferences. Lizzy looked plain amused.

“I have a question,” Lizzy said when she’d managed through one-third of her slice by alternating between attacking the tapering front of the cake and the heavily frosted and sprinkled with chocolate shavings back, tines of her fork indicating Cosima. 

Cosima sucked at the ganache clinging to her teeth and nodded. “Okay.”

“How do we know this clone business is real? How do we know—” The fork turned loops through the air. Lizzy frowned, mouth pulling to one side, then finished, “How do we know that it’s not just you?”

Cosima sipped at the tea to help rinse her mouth, taking a moment to note that though her cup was a plain, functional, handled tea cup—not a mug—the teapot was something much more Asian in design. Cosima wondered if the teapot had come in a set and why Jane, who had displayed considerable attention to presentation, hadn’t used it. “You mean that I’m not, like, just some twin separated at fertilization?”

Lizzy shrugged. “Sure.”

Cosima grinned. “I expected you to ask that way sooner, honestly.”

The Bennet sisters exchanged glances. Cosima pulled out her phone to check the time. It wasn’t early evening but it wasn’t late evening either. She looked from one sister to the other. “Do you want me to answer this right now?”

“Can you?” wondered Lizzy, skeptical.

“Probably,” Cosima said breezily.

Again, a look between the sisters. It was Jane who nodded. “Okay.”

“Do you mind if I use your WiFi?”

The sisters looked slightly perplexed, but Jane was quick to acquiesce. Cosima sent out a group text before retrieving her laptop. Her phone buzzed at times as she set up on the dining table, the coffee table being crowded with dessert, and hopped onto Jane’s network. As the chat program booted up, she glanced at Jane. The newly met clone’s features appeared pulled tight, the corners of her mouth forming dips of anxiety. Lizzy hovered behind them, looking over Cosima’s shoulder, arms crossed like a sentry.

“Ready?” Cosima asked softly.

Jane hesitated, then nodded.

Cosima hit the call button. The first ring was interrupted by Alison’s acceptance and Jane’s sharp intake of breath beside her, then Sarah appeared in full screen and delegated Alison to a smaller window at the bottom to the accompaniment of an exhalation from behind Cosima, and then a heartbeat later, Krystal appeared, gasping, “Sorry, I thought we were gonna use the other one—oh my God, is that her? Hi!”

“Holy shit,” Lizzy whispered, but crouched beside Cosima Jane was all silence, one hand over her mouth.

“Guys,” Cosima said slowly, “this is Jane Bennet. Jane, these are some of your sisters. Well,” Cosima shrugged, “the sisters you didn’t know you had.”

“Hello,” Alison greeted, with some reserve.

“Oi,” Sarah said with a little lift of her chin.

“Hi,” Krystal sang, smiling widely, leaning in close to the screen.

Cosima realized Jane was probably a tiny face in the corner of their screens and shifted over, pulling at Jane gently to move into the center of the camera’s gaze.

Jane looked at Cosima in disbelief. With the same shock, Jane breathed from behind her hand, “We’re all so different.”

Cosima grinned. “I told you.” She flicked her chin toward the screen. “Say hi.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Jane’s hand drifted away from her mouth and waved uncertainly. “Hello.”

Her sisters, watching her from their separate windows with their sets of similar eyes, answered with a spectrum of smiles, no two expressions alike though impressed upon templates Xeroxed by nature.

Just like that, just as it had for her, just like she had seen happen before and would see happen again, Cosima watched reality become real and undeniable for Jane Bennet and knew that, just as it would always be with every new meeting of a familiar face, nothing would ever be the same for any of them.


	50. The Bowles Identity (Charlotte, Marion Bowles)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canonballed to some extent by S4 particularly, I nonetheless still like these pieces imagining what Charlotte's upbringing under Marion Bowles' tutelage might have been like.
> 
> I really, really sincerely wanted Marion to stick around as a character to provide another motherhood narrative in this saga.
> 
> March 2015

Nobody asked to be born.

_Not yet._

Charlotte knew that because once, when sitting at the top of the stairs in the shadows cast by the lights from the parlor room a floor below, she overheard a man say it: 

"Oh, Marion, no one asks to be born. _Not yet,_ anyway. We’re getting there faster than most people think—to the Breakthrough Point. The race is getting hotter with what they’re doing in China. And soon the machines’ll be cooking up ways to go organic—and that’s when they’ll ask to be born. The joke’ll be on them, though—who wants to be a flabby carbon-based sack of flesh?”

Charlotte had strained to hear the answer, but there’d been only silence.

"Aw, c’mon, Marion. You used to be more fun than this."

”It’s a serious issue we’ll have to keep an eye on,” her mother had said. “There’s no saying what the development of true artificial intelligence might herald—for men or machines.” 

"Of course," their guest had scoffed. "You know I take my job seriously, just like you. You used to be more fun about it though. Is this what motherhood does?"

Again that quiet.

"See. So serious. I know you have more concerns than most parents, but your squirt’s alive and well. More alive than she probably has a right to be, all the previous trials considered."

"Dyad still hasn’t pinpointed what they’re missing in the code, but Charlotte is undoubtedly a lot closer than they’ve managed to get in thirty years since the setback."

"Mmhmm. Remind me: Are we encouraging them to keep looking or are we heading them off the path?"

"It still remains to be seen how the sisters fare. Their viability remains as much of a question today as it did the day they were conceived."

"Didn’t answer my question," the man had said. 

"I’ll keep an eye on my sectors," her mother had said with a sharpness of tone that made Charlotte wince. "You stay abreast of yours."

"Uh-huh. What was their projected life expectancy again?"

Charlotte had leaned into the railing of the stairs to hear better, to hear anything, but nothing wafted up to her ears. 

"You didn’t have to take her in, you know."

"Yes, I did," her mother had said, frankly and simply.

It was the tone she used when she wanted no arguments and, like most of the time when she used that tone, no one argued with her.

*

"Darling," her mother said one day, scooping Charlotte into her lap, "how do you feel about school?"

"What do you mean, Mummy?" Charlotte asked.

"Do you like it very much?"

That was a difficult question to answer, mostly because of the “very much.” School had been a daunting prospect at first. Her mother, Charlotte understood, had been hesitant about it. Because of Charlotte’s leg, maybe, but also maybe because none of the men in suits were allowed to shadow Charlotte in any of the classrooms or the yard, even if it was a private school. (“Never mind that I’ve donated enough to equip a whole new computer lab,” her mother had muttered once, another thing Charlotte probably wasn’t supposed to have overheard, but did, because the acoustics of their spacious home had a way of carrying sound. If Charlotte had ever had the luck to overhear her mother in a meeting with an interior decorator, she might have learned that it was because there was so little in the rooms to absorb sound, but Charlotte had never been privy to such a consultation and hadn’t yet taken the science courses that would lead to that insight.) Certainly for Charlotte, the sight of all the children, many of them her age but bigger, running free and wild and untamed and uncoralled, had been alarming that first visit, before she was even enrolled and Mother had wanted to assess the facilities, Charlotte trailing at her side, gripping her hand tightly, not really sure if she wanted to go to this noisy, bright place all alone. 

That part was still a little frightening. 

Charlotte never seemed to quite keep up with the other kids.

But she did like that the men in suits weren’t always around and that at school choruses of laughter filled the halls and there were people to play with rather than just watch her play. She even had classmates she might call friends or who called her their friend and that was something she’d never had at home. (Though she hadn’t yet been able to accept an invitation to come over to play at their house and she hadn’t even thought about inviting anyone over to hers.) She even liked the lessons, delivered by her earnest teachers, though they were easy. The lack of challenge generally meant she didn’t have to study much, but that allowed her more time to enjoy the fun parts about school. 

Those things Charlotte liked.

So when her mother asked her if she liked school _very much_ , Charlotte wasn’t sure how to answer. So she asked, “Why? Is something wrong?”

Her mother frowned, just a little bit. “Would you be very sad if you had to stop attending?”

Charlotte thought on that. “Will I stop attending?”

Her mother sighed. “Maybe.”

"Why?"

Her mother gazed far off for a time, out the windows behind the piano, but not really out the windows. Charlotte knew that many people thought her mother was a scary woman. All the men in suits and the household staff did everything she said, to the letter, which meant that Charlotte could never climb the jungle gym at the park unless Mother said she was allowed to or any other fun things like that. But her mother was never scary to Charlotte. If she caught Charlotte looking, she almost always had a smile for her. (And sometimes when her mother didn’t know that Charlotte was looking at her mother looking at her, she’d be smiling, too.) Her mother told her things, if Charlotte asked, in a patient voice. She even told her things when she didn’t ask.

"You may not be safe," her mother said at last.

"Did something happen?" Charlotte asked.

"We think a few of your sisters have been hurt." Her mother looked into her eyes and Charlotte straightened to meet her seriousness. "Very close by to us here."

"You think whoever hurt them will look for me?" Charlotte asked. She didn’t want her voice to sound small and tight, but it did.

Her mother stroked her hair. “It’s possible. As far as we know, they aren’t aware of you, but it’s better not to take chances. I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe. You know that, right?” Charlotte nodded. “However, that might mean taking you out of school, indefinitely. Is that okay?”

It wasn’t really okay. Charlotte felt maybe like she might cry. But she pressed her lips together.

"Oh, darling," her mother sighed and hugged her tight.

"Who was hurt?" Charlotte asked, to push away the scary thoughts of something vague and menacing lurking in their proximity.

"Maybe Beth," her mother said quietly.

"Maybe?" Charlotte asked. "I thought you said sisters. Who else?"

"We’re not sure of all the details yet."

That was her mother’s way of saying that Charlotte didn’t need to know all the details yet. Charlotte frowned and played with the end of a braid. “How is big sister Jennifer doing?”

Her mother looked sad, for just a second, eyes passing over Charlotte’s face. “Not so well, honey.”

"Can I meet her?"

"I don’t know if that would make her feel better," her mother said softly. "It might make her feel worse."

Her mother had said it gently, but Charlotte’s heart sank. She always wanted to meet her sisters. She understood why she couldn’t, her mother had explained that they didn’t know about her, but it always felt unfair nonetheless. “Can we send her flowers? Maybe they’ll make her feel better?” 

Her mother smiled. “Yes. Yes, we can.”

"Am I going to go to school tomorrow? If not, can we go to the flower shop and pick some to send?"

Her mother hesitated. “I have to talk to the school administrators yet, but maybe after school we can go.”

Charlotte brightened. “You’re going to pick me up?”

Her mother tucked a stray hair behind Charlotte’s ear. “Would you like that?”

The prospect briefly swept the sad thoughts away. Charlotte flung her arms around her mother’s neck. “Yeah! Can we?”

"Okay," her mother laughed, hugging her back. "Promise."

Her mother never made a promise she couldn’t keep.

* * *

Jennifer was the first to get sick. Charlotte learned that the day her mother took her on an unscheduled visit to the Dyad Institute to see the doctors, who poked and prodded her with cold metal instruments, pricked her with needles, and stuck her into and up against more machines than was usual for one of her checkups. They weren’t even much concerned with her leg, or if it hurt, or with physical therapy, but spent a lot of time listening to her chest and taking pictures of it. The whole time her mother hovered, wearing her frowny face, which didn’t mean she frowned with her mouth, but in the way she didn’t look like she was feeling anything at any time.

That blank look scared Charlotte more than the extensive tests.

Charlotte and her mother went out together to eat afterwards, to Tim Hortons, which surprised Charlotte a little because her mother was usually fussier about where they ate and what they ate—actually, really, about what Charlotte ate, which meant things full of vitamins and calcium—and the quick way she said yes when Charlotte asked to eat there made Charlotte’s stomach flip-flop a few times in the car. The sensation got worse when her mother let her order whatever she wanted without question. 

Charlotte fidgeted in her chair while they waited for the order to be processed. Her mother didn’t scold her or put her hand on her arm to still her the way she usually did when Charlotte got antsy. Her mother didn’t even notice the man staring at Charlotte’s brace because she never turned to give him a look that could make people look away, sometimes embarrassed. Her mother looked very far away, which was a way she got sometimes when she was thinking a lot about _important_ things.

"Is something wrong?" Charlotte asked.

"Hm?" her mother hummed, focusing on Charlotte. "What was that, darling? Did you say something?"

"I said, is something wrong, Mummy?"

"What do you mean?" her mother said, like she always did when Charlotte was being vague.

"I didn’t have a doctor’s appointment today, but you took me to see the doctors." Charlotte took a deep breath. "Is something wrong with me?"

Her mother was quiet. Her thinking quiet. She had taught Charlotte to use her words carefully and that it was good to think before speaking. _It’s okay to take time to arrange your thoughts_ , she had said. 

"One of your sisters may be ill and that made me worried that you might be ill, so I thought it would be best to see the doctors as soon as possible."

"Sick? Like how? Like a cold?"

Her mother shook her head. “Something more serious than that. Something,” her mother placed a hand upon her chest, “in the lungs. Something that makes it difficult to breathe.”

"Can you help her?" Charlotte asked. "Will she get better?"

"We’ll try to help her," her mother said gently, "but we have to figure out what is happening to her first."

Charlotte thought about it, then nodded. “So am I sick?”

"The doctors will find out, but what they told me strongly suggests that you aren’t."

"Maybe because I’m not big enough?"

Her mother sighed, but she had that light in her eyes she got when she was proud of Charlotte or impressed by something she’d done. “That’s a possibility. It could also be that whatever it is isn’t genetic, which would mean that you and the rest of your sisters won’t get sick.”

"So only one of them is sick?"

Her mother nodded. “As far as we can tell.”

"Who?"

Her mother hesitated. “Jennifer. Jennifer Fitzsimmons.”

"What does Jennifer do?" Charlotte asked, not because she didn’t know—she did; her mother had never sat her down and listed all her sisters, but Charlotte got pieces here and there and she kept of track of them as best she could—but because she liked to know her mother would answer her questions, even about her sisters, who were never mentioned by the doctors and were never around for Charlotte to talk to in person. 

"She’s a schoolteacher in the United States. She teaches children older than you."

"Does she like it?"

Her mother’s head twitched to the side. “I think so.”

"Does being sick means she has to stop teaching?"

"Maybe," her mother admitted, in her gentle voice. "If she gets very sick."

"Will she get very sick?"

"We don’t know."

If there was something Charlotte had learned over the years, it was that people, even doctors and scientists like her mother, didn’t really know all that much. At least according to how often her mother used the phrase. 

"But it could be like my leg? Like how not everyone has a bad leg? Jennifer has good legs, doesn’t she?"

"Yes, she does," her mother said softly. "She was a competitive swimmer."

"I wish she could teach me how to swim," Charlotte daydreamed aloud.

"I told you we’d discuss swimming lessons when your physical therapist says you’re ready."

"Yeah, but I guess I’ll never be able to swim like Jennifer."

For what seemed like the first time that day, her mother smiled. “Charlotte, sweetie, even among your sisters, only Jennifer can swim like Jennifer.” Her mother watched her closely. “Do you understand what I mean?”

Charlotte’s face scrunched in thought. “You mean that even though we’re all the same, we’re all different.”

"Exactly," her mother said, voice warm like a blanket. "You don’t have to try to be any of them. You can just be yourself."

"But what if I want to be like them?" Charlotte asked.

Her mother laughed a little, which was really just a small, strong exhalation. “You couldn’t. They’re all too different. You can’t be all of them.”

"But it’s okay, right, if I want to be like them?"

Her mother breathed out heavily. “Well,” she said slowly, “it might be best if you wanted to be more like some than others.”

"Which ones?" Charlotte asked, leaning forward.

Her mother shook her head. “Not up for discussion. Not now. Come on.” Her mother rose and held out a hand. “Let’s check on our order. Maybe ours got lost.”

Charlotte stood and slipped her hand into her mother’s. Her ploy to get her mother to reveal more about her big sisters hadn’t worked, but she was happy nonetheless. It wasn’t everyday she got to share a Tim Hortons lunch with her mother. Besides, her mother had said “not now.” Which meant, of course, that there would be other chances in the future.

* * *

For a time, Elizabeth Childs held Charlotte’s number one place of fascination. Not only did she live close by, like almost in the same city, so that Charlotte could imagine seeing her in person around town, maybe shopping or eating or running around outside, but she was a police officer and that meant she helped people and carried a gun. 

The gun loomed as its own curiosity, one derived from the knowledge that all the men in suits who followed her and her mother carried guns, just in case bad people tried to hurt them. The men made Charlotte feel safe for the most part, because they were big and looked kind of scary to anyone who didn’t know them, but Charlotte never saw anyone else followed by silent, serious-faced men who watched everything they did. Sometimes they were nice to have around, like when David used to give Charlotte piggyback rides when she was tired of walking, hoisting her up, her braced leg cradled carefully in the crook of his arm, and telling her to hold on tight before he took off running if no one was around. (Really, if her mother wasn’t around. Charlotte didn’t think her mother would really mind, but her mother’s presence always made David more silent and serious than when her mother wasn’t there.) 

Charlotte wondered if she could carry a gun by herself if she wouldn’t need to be surrounded by the men in suits, if she could walk about alone without fear or hesitation. It wouldn’t make her less shy around strangers or make it easier to make friends—it would be easier to not be alone for that, to have someone like her mother helping her—but it could mean that maybe she and her mother could be alone without strangers eyeing the company shadowing them. 

(Charlotte also knew, though, that if she saw a gun lying around, she should never pick it up. Her mother had been stern about that, to the point where she was almost frightening, and Charlotte hadn’t been sure if the warning had been directed more at her or the men in suits.)

Since Elizabeth Childs carried a gun, Charlotte imagined she wasn’t afraid of anything. Certainly not the bad guys she chased down and put in jail. (Because that’s what police officers did.) In Charlotte’s mind, her big sister Elizabeth was strong and brave and smart.

Charlotte said as much to her mother before bedtime once.

“You have to have strength, courage, and intelligence to be a detective, yes,” her mother agreed.

“To catch bad guys,” Charlotte crowed.

“Well,” her mother said slowly, “to find the truth.”

“To catch bad guys,” Charlotte tried again, but with less enthusiasm and a lot of hesitation.

“Good and bad,” her mother said carefully, “aren’t always simple. Police officers and detectives, like Elizabeth, make sure people obey the law.”

“But people who break the law are bad people, right?”

Her mother drifted into her thinking quiet. “For the most part, laws are meant to keep everyone safe. The reasoning goes that if we all obey laws, then people don’t hurt each other, and when someone does hurt someone, laws are a way that we agree that that is bad and it should be punished. Punishments act as deterrents—if I told you that if you didn’t finish your homework, you would never get to eat cookies again, you would finish your homework, right?”

Charlotte giggled. “If you said ginger snap cookies, I wouldn’t care.”

Her mother smiled. “That’s right, you wouldn’t. Sometimes people feel the same way about laws. They know they can be punished, but they break the law anyway.”

“Those are the bad guys?”

“Not necessarily,” her mother said with slight emphasis. “Not all laws are equally important. When Robert drives a little fast, he breaks the law, but that’s not as bad as if he punched someone for no reason. Right?” 

Charlotte nodded. Hitting people for no reason was not nice and adults tended to yell when someone did, but when Robert drove fast to get them somewhere on time, nothing tended to happen and no one really seemed bothered by it. 

“Besides that,” her mother continued, “laws are made by people and people aren’t perfect. Not all laws are good laws. Some people have good reasons for breaking laws. Some people can survive only by breaking laws. Like Jimmy, from your class? In some places, years ago, according to the law you and Jimmy would not have been able to go to the same school because of the color of his skin.”

Charlotte gasped. Jimmy, whose name was James but everyone called him Jimmy, was a boy who laughed a lot and occasionally shared his snacks with Charlotte. She especially liked it when he had chocolate chip cookies. “Why?”

“Because,” her mother said gently, “people who had fear and hatred in their hearts made laws that said people with dark skin weren’t equal to those who had light skin.”

Charlotte absorbed her mother’s words. “You mean like how you told me that people might be afraid of me if they knew I had a lot of big sisters who looked like me?”

Her mother stroked her hair. “Not exactly, but a bit like that, yes.”

“Are we bad guys?” Charlotte asked, voice small.

Her mother looked into her eyes. “No, sweetie, none of you are bad guys for what you are. Don’t believe anyone who tells you that.”

“Are you a bad guy?” Charlotte asked before she could stop herself or think about what she was asking, otherwise she might have been afraid before and not just after she asked it.

“I don’t think so,” her mother said, “but some might say I am. Elizabeth might.”

“Why?” Charlotte asked.

“Why would they think I’m a bad guy?” her mother rephrased.

Charlotte nodded. “Because of me?”

“Not because of you and don’t you think that,” her mother said, stern. “You, my darling, are not responsible for anything I’ve done. Everyone has to take responsibility for their own actions.” 

“So then why would big sister Elizabeth think you’re a bad person?”

“Because I do what I have to do to protect all of us, like I protect you, and in some cases the law hasn’t caught up yet, just like it took years for the laws that separated dark-skinned people to be changed.”

“Is that why we have all the men in suits? To stop people like big sister Elizabeth from coming to get us?”

Her mother laughed and Charlotte blushed because maybe she’d said something stupid, judging by her mother’s reaction. Her mother saw and stroked her cheek reassuringly, laughter softening.

“There _are_ bad people out there,” her mother said. “That’s why we have bodyguards, to stop those people if they ever come looking for us, not necessarily people like Detective Childs.”

“Oh,” Charlotte said softly. “So it would be okay if big sister Elizabeth came over?”

Her mother smiled. “Well, if she did, I’m sure Elizabeth and I would have to have a very, very long talk.”

“Then she wouldn’t put you in jail?”

“I don’t know, sweetie. That would be up to Elizabeth if she wanted to try.”

Charlotte must have looked as anxious as she felt over that uncertain prospect because her mother leaned over and kissed her forehead. 

“Don’t worry, Charlotte. It is very hard to find me unless I want to be found. I make sure that goes double for you.”

“But I wouldn’t mind if one of my sisters found me,” Charlotte declared.

“It wouldn’t be the same for them as it would be for you,” her mother reminded her, for the hundredth time.

“I know,” Charlotte grumbled.

Her mother smiled. “Enough. Time to sleep.”

Her mother folded back the covers and held them up as Charlotte scooted under them. She tucked Charlotte in, smoothed back her hair, and pressed her lips gently to the crown of Charlotte’s head. “Good night, darling. Sweet dreams.” Her mother gazed down at her very seriously. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

“I know, Mummy,” Charlotte murmured back. “Good night.”

She waited until her mother turned off the light and shut the door to close her eyes. That night, like many other nights, Charlotte dreamt of women who shared the same face. None of them seemed to notice Charlotte though she tried to get their attention.

It was only when she woke up that Charlotte realized all the women had looked like her mother.

* * *

To Charlotte, tales of her clone siblings were more enthralling, enchanting, magical, and even more romantic than any Disney movie. Disney characters got to be talking animals or possess superpowers or fight monsters or explore exotic places or become princesses or marry princes and live happily ever after, but they were still just made up stories—even when the characters were based on people who had been real, as some of them were, according to her mother—but the clones lived real lives with real adventures and real triumphs and real sorrows and real loves in real time. They were Charlotte, grownup versions of Charlotte, but not Charlotte, just like they weren’t like one another at all. Living their lives, not knowing that there were others like them living their lives, they did things and proved that Charlotte could do those things, too, because she and they were sort of exactly the same. But not.

Her mother had called this confusing like-but-not-like connection between her and her big clone siblings “nature versus nurture.” In their blood, _their DNA_ , they were all the same—“Mostly,” her mother had added once, like a side thought, as if allowing that sometimes blue could look white or something like that, “but we’ll wait until you’re older to talk about gene expression and epigenetics”—but the places they grew up in—“environment,” her mother said, meaning more than just if there were trees or sand—and the people they grew up with—“socialization,” her mother named it, and didn’t sound like when she encouraged Charlotte to “be social”—could make all of them become very different people.

"So we’re not the same?" Charlotte asked.

Her mother tilted her head. “We’re still trying to answer that question. We’re not sure. Genetically, yes, all of you share identical DNA, but we don’t know if DNA determines traits that—” Her mother paused. She did this when she wanted to use a big word that Charlotte wouldn’t understand and hadn’t yet found little words to make it easier. “Well, we would call them inherent traits, meaning something you’re born with. For example, we don’t know if DNA says that someone is an angry person and that that can’t be changed without using outside treatment, like medicine.”

"How can your DNA do that?" Charlotte wondered out loud.

"Hormones," her mother said, shaking her head even as she explained, "which is another thing we’ll wait until you’re older to go into. As another example, we think depression, when people are very, very sad, might be related to genetics and DNA, and so someone who has depression might pass it onto their biological children."

About half of what her mother said made clear sense, while Charlotte’s brain muddled the rest in its eagerness to form twenty new questions. “Is DNA why big sister Alison married Uncle Donnie but Cosima dated girls?”

Alison had met Uncle Donnie in college and then they had married afterward, but among the people Cosima had met in college were girls. Some she dated. But she didn’t marry any of them. Charlotte knew this because she had asked, once, why some of her sisters were married and others weren’t. Her mother had said, “Some people figure things out for themselves sooner than others. Some like Alison fall in love in college, while some like Cosima try dating girls in college.”

Charlotte had turned that over in her mind quietly for a time. At last she had asked, “Is it okay for girls to date girls?”

"Yes," her mother had said simply.

"Do all girls date girls?"

"No, but some want to and some do," her mother had replied.

Her mother said things in certain ways. Charlotte noticed that her mother was careful when she spoke to her. Her mother wasn’t always careful with other people. Or maybe she was careful in a different way. Charlotte wasn’t sure about that, but she was beginning to think maybe that’s what her mother did, found a different careful way to say things. 

"Do you mean that some girls want to date girls but they don’t date girls?" Charlotte had asked after some thought.

Her mother had given her a smile that was at first the smile that said she was proud of Charlotte and then a smile that looked a little sad. “That’s right.”

"Why not?"

"Because some are afraid to because not everyone thinks girls dating other girls is okay and some because they never meet a girl they want to date."

Charlotte had been quiet, thinking like she’d often seen her mother do. “What if you don’t want to date anyone?”

Her mother had laughed. “That’s okay, too.”

"Is that why you aren’t married, Mummy?"

Her mother had smiled, not happy but not sad either. “There are many reasons, sweetie,” she had said gently, in a way that Charlotte understood meant those reasons were secret, not for Charlotte to know.

Charlotte wanted to know, though, why her mother was alone. She didn’t think her mother was unhappy about it and Charlotte couldn’t complain about getting her mother to herself, but sometimes, just once in a while, she wondered if both she and her mother might be less lonely with someone else to keep them company. (And not just the men in suits.) 

She accepted there were things her mother didn’t want to tell her, though, not yet, and maybe never, which made Charlotte a little sad to think about, so in that moment she had asked instead, “So is it better to figure things out sooner like big sister Alison or later like big sister Cosima?”

Her mother had shaken her head. “It’s not better or worse, it’s however long it takes someone. Everyone is different and everyone takes the time they need.”

"Even all my sisters?"

Her mother had nodded. “Even all your sisters.”

Because, of course, they were all the same but different. Maybe because of DNA. Or maybe not. Charlotte wasn’t sure and her mother looked undecided as to how she wanted to answer Charlotte’s latest question.

"We don’t know," her mother said finally. "It’s one of our most interesting nature versus nurture questions, but even with you and all your sisters, we’re still not sure if Cosima’s sexual orientation—that is, her interest in girls—is an exception or not." 

The important word in her answer didn’t mean anything to Charlotte and her mother saw it in her face. 

"What I mean, darling, is that we don’t know if all of you are interested in girls, but only Cosima shows it, or if Cosima is the only one who likes girls and she’s different from everyone else, what we would call an exception."

"Oh," Charlotte said quietly. "So if I like girls, too, then it means all of us like girls?"

Her mother shook her head. “No, sweetie, not necessarily. All we would know for sure is that you like girls.”

Charlotte felt more confused than ever. “Then how do you find the answer, whether it’s just big sister Cosima or all of us?”

"One way would be to ask," her mother said. "We do that a lot in some fields of science, especially behavioral sciences. But we haven’t asked all your sisters because they don’t know about us and they wouldn’t like us asking. Another way would be to observe, to watch what they do, which is what we do. But that doesn’t always give us the clearest answer and since we can’t read DNA the way we read a book—that is, we don’t understand what all the different parts of DNA do and what they mean when they’re in a certain order—we sometimes have to use what we can see to guess at what DNA might be doing."

"That sounds like it’s really hard to find out and it’s hard to know for sure," Charlotte pointed out.

Her mother nodded. “It is.”

"So … we don’t know," Charlotte said.

"That’s right."

Charlotte hesitated to say what she said next because she’d never said it aloud before, not directly to her mother. “We don’t know a lot. You and people like Uncle Aldous, I mean.”

Her mother laughed. “That’s right. It’s okay to not know and it’s okay to admit that we don’t know. That’s why we ask questions. That’s what scientists do. We ask questions and we try to find the answers by doing experiments. But we can’t always find the answers. Not yet.”

"Is that why you made us? To find answers about DNA?" 

Her mother nodded thoughtfully. “Those were among the reasons, yes.”

Charlotte frowned. “But you aren’t getting many answers.”

"There’s a lot of information," her mother said, "and it takes time to go through all of it and try to make sense of it. We don’t have the answers today but tomorrow—or many tomorrows—we might have them because of you and what all of you have shown us."

"That would be good, right?"

Her mother didn’t answer right away. “For the most part, knowledge isn’t good or bad by itself. It’s how we use it.”

"But it’s good if we help answer questions, right?"

Her mother was slow to speak again. “Some might say _how_ we learn things can be good or bad.”

"How can we tell?" Charlotte asked.

Her mother was quiet for a good amount of time, long enough that Charlotte wasn’t sure she was going to say anything. Then her mother said, “I’m not sure we really know. There are many different answers, many different ways of seeing things.”

Charlotte frowned. It wasn’t an answer, not really, but maybe she was beginning to get it. “Like me and my sisters? How we dress different  and do different things and like different things?”

"Sort of like that," her mother agreed. "There are many different opinions and sometimes all you can do is listen and watch and learn and form your own."

Charlotte thought on that and the long hours her mother worked and how serious she looked when she was working or thinking about work. “I’d like to help you answer questions, Mummy.”

Her mother laughed. “Thank you, darling.”

"Can we look for the answers together?" Charlotte asked, hopefully. "Like maybe someday we can do the science together?"

"Maybe," her mother agreed, "if you like science. You might like doing something else more or like a different type of science. Why don’t we wait and see?"

"Okay," Charlotte agreed because her mother tried to keep a policy of try something at least once and sometimes her mother said things like they never knew what might happen tomorrow, but she knew she could like it because she knew that big sister Cosima liked the kind of science her mother liked. "But if we could, I’d like that."

Her mother nodded, eyes warm. “I think I might like that, too.”


End file.
